


Watson's Woes JWP 2020

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Animals, Chemistry, Cold Weather, Disguise, Family, Food, Gen, Goodbyes, Healing, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Irregulars - Freeform, Memories, Nightmares, Phobias, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Rescue, Retirement, Scotland Yard, Stranded, Violins, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2020, Worried John Watson, Worried Sherlock, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 44,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25024144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: A collection of all my JWP responses. Each chapter stands alone.
Comments: 90
Kudos: 42
Collections: Watson's Woes JWP Collection: 2020





	1. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #1  
> Creative Machinery: Take inspiration from the following video for today's work. How you choose to use the inspiration is up to you.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LC8PYq_VS0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This falls before Fragment 8: Retirement and shortly after Those Who Wait

It took hours to set it up.

Holmes would have done it faster—and probably better—but it was not as if I could ask him for help, even if he were here. He was still finishing up whatever he had been doing for Mycroft for the last two years, and he thought that a list of patients was keeping me out of my house while he was in the area. I had told him I would meet him in Sussex when he was done, letting him think I would leave London when I received his telegram, but I had been here since late last night. Provided he did not leave London for a few more hours, I would have plenty of time to enact my plan.

He had been gone for two years, and there at the end, he had missed a check-in. I had had no idea where he was, what was going on, or why he hadn’t called Mycroft at the pre-arranged time. We didn’t hear from him for days.

He had left me worrying for three days. No matter how glad I was that he was unhurt, he deserved a revenge prank.

I ran a line along the walls, taking my time both to make sure it would work correctly when I was finished and that I did not fall again in the process. I was aiming for a homecoming more entertaining than frightening, and Holmes returning to find me on the floor would most definitely fall in the latter category. My knee no longer ached from my fall a few weeks ago, but it was my bad leg, and my balance had not yet fully returned.

I tied off that line and began the next one, setting up a deceivingly simple design where moving a few things around in the kitchen carried unexpected results. In total, there were three items I had modified—one for each day of waiting—and if this went off the way I intended, it was going to be highly amusing—for me, at least.

I had gotten both the idea and the basic design from him, though I doubted he would remember the cause and effect prank he had built in our rooms one April. He had rigged my books in such a way that I had to pull one book off the shelf to free another, and there was no pattern to it that I ever found. Sometimes the key book was on the right, sometimes the left, and occasionally above or below the target book on my shelves. It had taken twenty minutes of guesswork to free one book, and I had struggled to cover my amusement with irritation. It must have taken him hours to put that together, though whether he did it overnight or the day before I had never found out. I had admitted, however silently, that it was a good prank, and I had paid him back for it by adding a chemical to his tobacco that turned his mouth blue, to Scotland Yard’s infinite enjoyment. He reciprocated, and that year’s prank war had lasted well into May, when Mrs. Hudson had finally grown tired of the noise. She had told us to either stop “acting like children” or plan to eat out more regularly, and we stopped planting more pranks, though I did not take down the one I had already set up before Mrs. Hudson cornered me on the stairwell. Thankfully for our pocketbooks, Holmes tripped that last prank when Mrs. Hudson was away from the flat, and I had won the prank war simply by virtue of Holmes not daring to reciprocate for fear of Mrs. Hudson’s wrath.

Finally securing the last piece, I went through once more and tested each portion, making sure it worked the way I intended. When everything moved as it should, I set it back up for him to trip and stepped back to observe the morning’s work.

Thin, nearly invisible pieces of thread snaked over the backs of the counters, weaving around chairs to connect two cabinet doors to other various items. I had tried to hide the thread well enough that even he would not notice it immediately, but only his arrival would tell whether he saw the trap before he tripped it. After spending two years working alone, there was a chance he would be even more observant than I remembered.

His reaction to finding the traps would suffice as payback, but I much preferred he activate them. Maybe the lingering twinges of irritation I still carried would finally diffuse in my amusement.

That done, I moved to the sitting room and settled into my armchair with a book, wondering when Holmes would arrive. He had not expected to spend more than a day or two in London, but the telegram announcing his travel plans would go to my practice, not the cottage. I would not know he was on his way until he arrived, so I had parked my motorcar on the opposite side of the cottage in the hopes that he would not notice it immediately. I could only settle in to wait.

The day passed slowly, even with the long novel I had brought with me from London, and I welcomed the chance to relax for a while. Sussex was more temperate than London, and the series of thunderstorms that had been washing the city were nowhere to be found this far south. My old injuries were finally silent for the first time in weeks, and I enjoyed losing myself in a book as the afternoon dragged by.

Footsteps on the path outside broke me out of my novel, and I looked up in time to catch a glimpse of Holmes through the window.

He walked inside with the creaking of hinges, shutting the door behind him without ever glancing around the room, and I kept still. He would look towards the fireplace eventually, and his surprise was always greater if he saw me before he heard me.

Perhaps tired from the recent days of travel, he moved slowly, setting down his valise and hanging his still-damp overcoat on a hook near the door before he turned toward the kitchen.

My grin widened, and I covered a chuckle as he left my sight without ever glancing my direction. I could hear him moving around the other room, checking what we had and forming a mental list of what he would need to replace. The cottage had been closed for two years, and I had thrown away quite a bit of spoiled foodstuffs the night before.

He opened a cabinet and paused, then closed it and opened another. Silence filled the kitchen, and I decided he had noticed the few items I had bought in town that morning.

More cabinets opened and closed as he quickly worked his way down one side of the kitchen, and suddenly, I heard several things fall and roll across the floor. He had tripped the first prank, spilling a container full of the marbles I kept in my consulting room for patients’ children.

I heard nothing but the rolling marbles for another long moment, and I imagined him staring, trying to find another way he could have so many items fresh from the store as well as the marbles he had once stolen for a case if I was still in London.

There was a flurry of movement, and he appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, staring at me seated in the chair I usually claimed when I came to visit.

“Hello, Holmes,” I said through my smile.

He said nothing, the surprise clear on his face, and I could not hide my slowly widening grin at the sight of a speechless consulting detective. It was a rare thing indeed for me to render him unable to speak.

He pulled himself together, and the surprise in his gaze vanished beneath a quickly hidden flash of pleasure as he strode across the room to seat himself in the armchair opposite.

“There were no patients, were there?” he asked as he settled into his chair, characteristically skipping the formalities most others would have observed.

“Of course, not.” A smirk replaced the wide grin. “You cannot think I would stay in London any longer than necessary when you can finally tell me where you’ve been for the last two years? My motorcar is around back.”

He started. “Your motorcar? You did not borrow that from Mycroft?”

I laughed, more at the pleasure of Holmes being back in England than at him not realizing that the motorcar we had taken from the station was mine instead of Mycroft’s.

“I bought it last winter,” I replied, leaning back in my chair as he started packing his pipe. “You knew I was considering it.”

“Yes, but I never thought you would ever buy one of them.”

“It was better than the train,” I replied. “It would have taken much longer for me to make it back here if I had had to work around the train schedule.”

He looked up from his pipe, staring at me as a thought struck him. “How long have you been here?”

“I came after dropping you in Pall Mall.”

He stared at me, and I struggled to read his thoughts. If I did not know better, I would say there was hope in his gaze. What was he thinking?

“How is your practice?”

Oh. He thought I had retired while he was gone. I could not deny that I had wanted to retire as each winter proved worse than the last, but I would not chance my presence in Sussex tipping off the wrong person that my friend was out of the country.

“Thriving,” I answered his spoken question, then added, “I am not retired, Holmes. I asked my neighbor to take my patients for a few days.”

I wondered if he was going to restart his campaign to convince me to retire. His arguments had been getting hilariously creative before he left, and I would wait a few months before I told him that I was planning to sell my practice in the fall, mostly to see if two years had given him more ideas, but also for another reason. It was a rare thing to be able to surprise him, and the chance of doing so twice in one year was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

The cloud of smoke rising from his pipe cut off whatever reply he would have made, and he coughed, quickly waving the foul-smelling miasma away from his face.

“Watson!”

I chuckled. “Old tobacco?” I asked, not bothering to hide the grin in my voice.

He coughed again. “More like rigged. What did you do to my tobacco?”

“I made it more interesting.”

He harrumphed but said nothing, only emptying that bowl and stealing some from my own pouch that I had left nearby. He stared at me as he refilled and lit his pipe, and an uncomfortable silence fell.

I tried to think of something to say, but I came up empty. There had been no direct contact in over two years except for a short surprise phone call last Christmas, and I had already noticed several things that had changed in that time. His word choice was one—he never would have used the word “rigged” before his time in america. Another had been the ghastly goatee he had sported when I met him at Harwich. I was glad that was gone, but somehow the silence that used to be comfortable had grown awkward, tense.

A glance at the clock gave me an idea, and I pulled myself to my feet.

“Have you eaten today?” I asked as I steadied myself on my cane. “Your old housekeeper is out of town for a while, so I could not ask if she wanted to return, but I did stop for supplies on my way out here.”

He said nothing, still staring at me, and I smirked. “You were too busy pacing to eat on the train, weren’t you?”

He huffed in feigned irritation, standing even as his gaze remained locked on the cane in my hand, on the unsteadiness of my gait. He had been so focused on catching Von Bork that he had barely glanced at me when I followed him into Bork’s study, and I had hidden it as much as possible as we left. I was still trying to hide it, but he was no longer distracted by the completion of two years’ work. “I had other things on my mind,” he replied distractedly. “You know I do not eat when on a case.”

“A case?” I glanced back at him as he followed me to the kitchen. “I thought your work for Mycroft was finished?”

My words snapped his focus away from my cane, and he darted around me into the kitchen to hide that he had been staring. “The case of how to replace my bees,” he said matter-of-factly. I watched him, certain he had been thinking about something other than hundreds of flying insects, but he continued before I could try to question him, “I sold them all before I left, as you know.”

“You cannot really mean to replace them?”

He glanced back at me. “Of course, I intend to replace them. Why would I not?”

I had never told him why I always avoided his hives, that I saw no reason to keep so many flying, stinging things so near the house, and I shrugged in reply. He stopped at the counter before the silence stretched too long, however, and I halted several steps behind him, surreptitiously taking a step backwards as he reached for a cabinet he had not yet opened.

He noticed, of course. “What are you—”

The cabinet door opened far enough to trip my prank, and he jumped back just in time to avoid a drenching as the bucket of water emptied its contents where he had been standing. I did not laugh, but it was a near thing. The surprise in his expression was well worth the hours it had taken to set up.

“Watson!”

I smothered a grin at the irritation in his voice, slowly making my way closer to avoid slipping on the wet floor.

“If you did not expect that,” I informed him steadily, my amusement still trying to show on my face, “you have been away for too long.”

He looked at the water puddled around his shoes, then back up at me, wondering why he should have expected a drenching upon opening a cabinet.

I carefully used my stick to pull out the cloth I had set up to catch most of the spill as I answered his unspoken question. “Three days, Holmes.”

The reference hit home, and he stared at me then looked around the room, realizing that his years of absence had given me time to plan, and the three days he had left me worrying after he missed a check-in had provided the incentive.

I had only placed the three pranks, but he would be on guard for more pranks for weeks, and that was all the payback I needed.

I smirked, the cloth soaking up most of the spill as he stared at me, then turned away to show him what I had picked up in town. This was going to be a fun week, for more reasons than just having my dearest friend back in England.


	2. Prank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JWP #2  
> Phobias Redux: Let’s revisit an old prompt. Either Watson or Holmes has a phobia. Who is it, why do they have it, and how did the other discover it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m apparently in a pranking mood :D probably because the other stories I’m working on are an angst fest

He carefully cupped it in one hand as he held the banister with the other. It would do no good flattened before he even got to the sitting room, but stairs were always difficult no matter how little his leg was bothering him.

It was April first, and a prank had been crawling its way across his bedroom floor when he woke.

Finally reaching the landing, he walked quietly, trying to determine if he was alone, and a noise came from the bedroom. He grinned and placed his prize on the table near Holmes’ place.

His friend had been bragging just the other day that he was afraid of nothing, but even the fearless could be startled. And he had always found startling the fearless to be highly entertaining.

Settling into his own place and spooning himself a portion of eggs, he started eating as he listened to Holmes moving around in the other room. Whatever the detective was doing, it had him crossing the room several times in the space of a minute, and Watson followed the footsteps, trying to decide what Holmes was trying to accomplish so early in the morning.

The door opened a minute later, and Holmes joined him at the table in the half-finished guise of a dockworker.

“What’s the case?” Watson asked between bites. He scanned the table but saw nothing.

“Possible smuggling ring,” Holmes said shortly, pouring himself a cup of coffee and not quite awake enough to talk. “Lestrade brought it by yesterday.”

Silence fell as Holmes sipped his coffee and nibbled little bits of breakfast. He never ate much in the mornings, but if he was in the right mood, he would join Watson while Watson ate. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes not, but Watson was grateful for the company.

He covered a piece of toast in butter and jam, and Holmes looked up from the paper. Evidently deciding the warm jam smelled good, he reached for his own piece of toast.

Watson looked up from his food when Holmes froze with his hand halfway to the plate. The detective’s face had turned from its normal pasty white to nearly grey, and Watson swallowed quickly. “What is it, Holmes?”

Holmes would later deny it, but Watson would swear the supposedly fearless detective let out a yelp before flinging the toast and a small black dot into the air.

A moment later, the fire let out a small hiss, and Watson stared for a moment before laughing heartily.

Holmes glared at him before stalking back into his bedroom, slamming the door to Watson’s, “April Fools!”

Still laughing, Watson turned back to his plate. He would pay for laughing later, whenever Holmes decided to retaliate, but it had been well worth it.

If he had known the man would scream like that, he would have put a spider on the breakfast table years ago.


	3. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of a case, Holmes is left with more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #3: Green Grow the Rushes, Oh!: Your inspiration today is anything green: grass, leaves, emeralds, a visiting alien, someone who is green with envy…

“Why did you do it?”

The door shut quietly behind them, and Watson breathed a sigh of relief.

“Watson?”

He glanced up to catch Holmes’ gaze, keeping his hand pressing into the cut to stem the bleeding. “Why did I do what?”

“You were not in range. Why did you jump in front of me?”

“You should know the answer to that by now,” Watson replied shortly, turning away and calling for Mrs. Hudson to bring some towels and water before limping up the stairs. He kept his hand pressed against the wound in an effort not to drip blood on the floor, and Holmes stared at him.

They had just sprung a trap, catching a smuggler along with much of his wares. The trap had gone off successfully, but the leader had pulled a knife as Holmes explained how they had caught him. Watson had lunged with a shout, shoving Holmes out of the way as the blackguard attacked, and Holmes had regained his feet to see the Yarders clapping derbies on the smuggler and Watson bleeding heavily from a deep cut on his arm.

Why would Watson do such a thing? The smuggler had been aiming for Holmes, not Watson, and it would have been Holmes’ fault if he had let his exultation at the case’s denouement distract him enough for the smuggler to score a hit with the dagger. Why would Watson take the results of Holmes’ mistake?

Watson faltered on the stairs, breaking Holmes out of his thoughts, and he hurried up to where the doctor had paused.

“How bad is it?”

“Annoying,” Watson grunted, most of his focus on the stairs in front of him.

Holmes did not press, though he could clearly see that the wound was much more than “annoying.” The doctor was wearing a dark jacket, so Holmes could not see how much blood there was, but Watson’s color only worsened with every step. Holmes stayed within reach as Watson resumed slowly climbing the stairs.

The seventeen steps to the sitting room seemed much longer, but soon enough, Watson fell more than sat onto the settee.

“What can I do?” Holmes asked, setting Watson’s medical bag within reach.

“Learn how to suture,” Watson replied rhetorically, trying to smirk. He continued quietly before Holmes could reply. “Look for a small green box.”

Holmes dug through the bag, pulling out the desired container just as the sitting room door opened.

“Why do you need water and towels?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she bustled through the door, items in hand. “If your chemistry set spilled again, Mr. Holmes—”

The threat cut off as she spotted Watson on the settee, and she halted, her face turning slightly green at the blood streaming down the doctor’s arm. The green faded a moment later as she paled, and Watson’s order sounded just as Holmes leaped to his feet.

“Catch her!”

“I’m fine.” Her tone belied her words as Holmes helped her into Watson’s desk chair, deftly steadying her while setting the water and towels on a nearby table. “I’m fine,” she said again, stronger. “You just caught me off guard.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. We will warn you next time.” Watson’s voice was faint. “Set the water where I can reach it, Holmes. I need to clean this and suture it.”

“You mean you need to hold still and talk me through how to suture it,” Holmes corrected, keeping the bowl on the table as he gently rolled up Watson’s sleeve to expose the cut.

“I was not serious, Holmes—”

Holmes glared, and Watson fell silent. “But I am,” Holmes finished. “You know I am studying this. Unless you do not trust me enough to let me practice on you?”

“That’s not it,” Watson said quickly. “I just…”

The response trailed off, but Holmes knew what Watson had been trying to say.

“I told you I wanted to learn, and I meant it. Now, how do I start?”

Mrs. Hudson came closer to the settee behind Holmes, observing and handing items from Watson’s bag as Watson quietly walked Holmes through cleaning and suturing the long gash in his arm.

Ten minutes later, Holmes tied off the bandage as Watson leaned back into the settee with a sigh.

“Alright, Watson?”

He nodded, his eyes closing despite his efforts. “Tired.” He focused his bleary gaze on where Mrs. Hudson was standing behind Holmes. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“I’m fine, Doctor,” she reassured him. “I just did not expect to find you covered in blood. Warn me before I come around the corner next time, and it won’t happen again.”

Watson nodded, but made no answer as his eyes closed yet again.

“Watson, is it a problem that you are falling asleep?”

Watson shook his head, his eyes still closed. “Side effect of blood loss is sleep. I…will be fine after some rest.”

Holmes eyed him, trying to decide whether he should believe the reassurance, and Watson forced an eye open at the silence.

“Check the book on my desk if you don’ believe me,” he said, his words beginning to slur together with fatigue.

Watson was asleep by the time Holmes looked up from the textbook entry on blood loss, and Holmes settled into his armchair as Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs. The text had corroborated Watson’s claim, but he would watch and wait for Watson to wake.

He had plenty to think about, anyway. Why would Watson take an injury meant for him?


	4. Remembering Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the temperature skyrockets, sometimes staying cool is the least of Watson's worries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #4  
> Hot July brings cooling showers, apricots and gillyflowers: Use two or more of the following in your work today: July, cooling showers, apricots, gillyflowers (which include carnations, stock, and wallflowers). Poem is by Sara Coleridge.

I leaned back in my chair, wishing desperately for a break from the heat.

Temperatures had soared in the last week of July, slowing London to a crawl as everything seemed to bake in the dry warmth. It hadn’t rained in days, and even Holmes had stopped his between-case pacing to drag several of his commonplace books to his armchair, loosening his collar and rolling up his sleeves in an effort to cool off as he slowly paged through the books.

At least he was keeping himself busy. I had thought my time in India—or Afghanistan—had made me more or less immune to the high temperatures. I usually handled it better than Holmes, but this heat wave was proving worse than usual. The dry heat pulsing against my skin brought up too many memories, and I was finding it harder and harder to focus on anything but the heat and my own thoughts. Normally, I would be reading, but I was too hot to focus, even with my sleeves rolled up, and a pitcher of water did nothing; it was just as warm as everything else within a few minutes of bringing it upstairs. I had given up on that idea.

It was the kind of day that needed distraction, for various reasons, and I searched for something to do. Books and journals were out of the question, and if I was too hot to read, I would not be able to write, either. Nor did I have a desire to go for a walk, or even to sit on the bench I favored by the river. The riverfront might be cooler than the flat, but it was much too hot to walk that far.

Besides, the memories that were coming to the fore with the heat meant it would not be a smart idea for me to place myself in public. I had managed to keep the occasional regressions to the privacy of our rooms thus far, and I had no wish to change that.

Buzzing caught my attention, and my gaze shifted to the window to see a fly lazily buzzing in and out of the room. It was even too hot for the flies to move quickly, and I watched it drift in and out for a moment before it came in further and began exploring the room. I lost sight of it near Holmes’ desk, and I searched for something else I could use as a distraction. Someone moved across the window of the house down the street, and I focused on that, attempting to ground myself with the deductions I had been trying to learn from Holmes.

I had never learned more than the basics of his techniques, and I gave up soon enough, standing and moving a bowl of apricots to look down at the street below. The faintest trace of a breeze hit my face, and I closed my eyes with a sigh. If only that would strengthen! It had been weeks since we had last gotten rain, and a shower would do wonders to cut the heat—and my memories. I did not have to look at the clear sky to know that we would get no rain today or tomorrow, however. The lack of pain in my leg and shoulder told me that well enough.

A few people walked the streets below, and I lazily studied them. A banker, walking with a purpose. A young mother, worrying her handkerchief as she hurried down the street. Two children, moving quicker than the adults but still slower than usual due to the heat.

A loud noise sounded behind me, startling me out of my observations, and instinct took over. I spun toward the noise, completely disregarding the heat pulsing around me as I prepared for the attack I knew was coming.

I blinked. I was in our sitting room in Baker Street, not in the deserts of Afghanistan, and I forced myself to relax the defensive stance into which I had fallen.

“Watson?” Holmes was staring at me, a hint of concern in his gaze as he shook the remains of the fly off his book.

I sighed. Of course, Holmes had noticed. “I’m fine, Holmes. It just startled me.”

He frowned. I had finally told him something about the effects of war and the memories it leaves behind years ago, and I knew he could see how tense I still was. My jumping at the noise could not properly be categorized as a regression—however minor—but it warned that if something did not change, a true regression—major or minor—could come later.

I had found an easy way of dissipating them years ago, and I went looking for a journal as a precaution. Should more specific memories come to the fore, writing them out would release them without them taking over, but the memories could change from specific to regressions in only a couple of minutes. The time to find a journal could make all the difference between a few minutes of writing and a full, disorienting regression.

His frown deepened when he saw me lay the journal and a pencil next to my chair, and I knew he remembered what I had told him only a few months previously. I had first found the technique nearly four years ago, but I had not told him until he arrived home one day to find me so caught up in my writing that I never heard him enter. He had thought me in the midst of a major regression when I either did not reply to his questions or—when I did reply—did not reply in a language he knew, and it was only after I explained what I had been doing that he had relaxed.

He got up as I sat down, and I faintly wondered what he was doing. I lost interest when he started digging through the pile of stuff near his desk, however, and turned my focus back to finding something to distract me from the memories chiming for attention. Should I try to lose myself in a novel? If I chose the right one, there was a chance I would be able to ignore the heat—and therefore my memories—for a while.

Before I could make up my mind, notes filled the sitting room, and I looked over to see Holmes tuning his violin. He brought it back to his chair a moment later, raising an eyebrow at me as he settled into his chair in a way that would not hinder the bow.

I smiled and leaned back in my chair, needing no words to tell him that yes, that might help, and he dragged the bow across the strings before beginning to work his way through our favorite songs.

Sometimes, music could do just as much as a cooling shower.


	5. Listening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes learns to listen faster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #5: Prompt was a picture of a cave

“Holmes?”

“What is it?”

“Do you hear that?”

The detective stopped, tilting his head to listen to the faint rumble. “We are underground, Watson. It is probably just a train on the surface.”

Dripping water punctuated the silence for a long moment. “Holmes?” There was a sound of acknowledgement, and he continued, “Holmes, we need to leave.”

Holmes looked back, raising the light to look at the doctor. Watson had stopped in the middle of the path and was carefully studying the walls of the cave.

“We need to reach that room, Watson. Come along.”

Silence accompanied a single pair of footsteps, and he turned back to see Watson still studying the walls. “Watson?”

“Have you spent much time in caves, Holmes?”

He hesitated, but he was forced to admit that no, he had not.

“There are no trains above us. The closet train is miles away, and that noise could be warning of a collapse. We need to leave. Now.”

Holmes hesitated again, looking ahead. They really did need to get to a room in the back of the cave. The evidence he would find there would prove or disprove his case, but if Watson was right…

Watson lost patience and lunged, dragging Holmes several feet down the path they had come before Holmes reacted. His struggles brought them to a halt, but Watson kept his grip on Holmes’ arm.

Watson turned his gaze from the path they had already traveled to the stubborn detective behind him, about to argue, but a glance at the ceiling changed what he had been about to say.

“Move!”

Holmes lunged at the same time Watson pulled, and they ended up on the ground, a tangled bundle of arms and legs tumbling across the path as part of the ceiling caved in where they had been standing. They finally stopped rolling with Watson on top, and with rocks still falling all around them, Holmes tried to change that, to no success. Pinned beneath his friend, he felt Watson relax as the rocks finally stopped.

“Watson, are you going to let me up?”

There was no reply, and Holmes resumed his struggling, trying to free himself to check on his friend.

“Watson!”

A groan reached his ears, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he continued to work to extricate himself.

“Watson, what happened?”

“Blasted rocks,” Watson muttered, rolling to the side to let Holmes up but making no attempt yet to rise himself.

“Watson, talk to me.”

Watson merely groaned again, and Holmes started fumbling for matches and the candle he had dropped even as Watson finally started trying to regain his feet.

“Watson?”

The candle lit, and its flickering light filled the cave. Holmes held it high, using the faint light to check on his friend. Watson had crawled to the closest wall and was feebly using that to pull himself upright. Holmes moved closer, and the candle illuminated a clearly budding knot on the back of the doctor’s head.

Holding the candle in one hand, he used the other to help Watson to his feet. The doctor swayed for a moment before steadying, and he leaned heavily on Holmes’ support.

“Watson, talk to me,” Holmes pressed, keeping his voice low.

“I’m fine, H’ms,” he muttered. “Just a…just a headache. Blasted rocks.”

Holmes frowned, not liking how disjointed Watson’s words were.

“Come, Watson. We need to leave.”

Holmes draped Watson’s arm over his shoulder as Watson faintly huffed a laugh. “So _now_ , you lis’n to me.”

Holmes’ worry subsided minutely at the comment, but he only replied, “The collapse is blocking the path.”

With Watson using Holmes as a substitute for his failing balance, they stumbled back the way they had come.


	6. Nighttime Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a scream shook Baker Street, the cause was not what they had expected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #6  
> Nighttime Doings: It's the middle of the night. Why is screaming coming from Baker Street?

“…which is how Conrad stole the jewels from the vault.”

Watson leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying a quiet night by the fire after the case they had just finished. “Well, it is a creative method, if nothing else.”

Holmes smirked. “Creative, perhaps, but much too obvious. It was clear from the beginning what he had done. It was only a matter of proving it.”

Watson chuckled, but a loud scream cut off his reply as it echoed through the flat. They stared at each other in surprise for only a moment before Holmes was on his feet.

“That came from Mrs. Hudson’s rooms!”

Watson grabbed his revolver, bolting down the stairs a step behind Holmes. Had someone broken into the flat? Why would they have gone after Mrs. Hudson instead of coming upstairs?

Another scream, quieter but still loud enough, carried from the bedroom as they entered Mrs. Hudson’s rooms, and they barely hesitated. The door was open in a moment as they rushed the bedroom expecting to find Mrs. Hudson in trouble.

Darkness obscured the room, and they froze on either side of the doorway, desperately scanning to find the problem before it found them. Silence reigned for a long moment.

The room was empty.

What had they heard? The scream had come from this room, they knew, but there was no sign of an intruder.

Watson glimpsed movement, and the realization hit him.

“Holmes?” Watson whispered to get the detective’s attention. Holmes glanced over from scanning the corners to show he was listening, and Watson continued, “Why don’t you put a kettle on for tea?”

Another scream cut off as Mrs. Hudson sat bolt upright in bed, and Holmes understood what Watson had seen a moment before.

Holmes left with a nod while Watson slowly walked closer to the bed, trying not to startle Mrs. Hudson, who had her face in her hands and was breathing deeply.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he said quietly.

She jumped and looked up at him, more vulnerable than he had ever seen her. Relief filled her gaze at the sight of him, and Watson smiled gently.

“It was just a dream, Mrs. Hudson. Join us in the kitchen?”

She hesitated but nodded, and Watson left to help Holmes prepare a pot of tea. Mrs. Hudson joined them a minute later, her dressing gown wrapped around her nightclothes, and seated herself at the table without a word.

Silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the sound of Watson taking over preparing the tea, and Holmes seated himself at the table across from her.

She did not look up, and a frown flickered across Holmes’ face as he saw how shaken she was.

“Mrs. Hudson?” She finally looked up at his atypically gentle tone, and he continued, “You are safe. Should someone break in, you will be quite adept at fending them off even without our help.”

She stared at him in confusion as Watson placed the tea on the table and sat down, but understanding replaced the confusion before Watson could speak, and she shook her head. “I know that.”

Realization, then discomfort crossed Holmes’ face, and Watson took over as Holmes searched for words. “Then what was it?”

She said nothing as her gaze alternated between the two of them, and Watson understood what Holmes could not voice. “I am sorry you walked in on that,” Watson said quietly.

Their most recent case had started and ended with a fight in the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had walked into the middle of the second one to find Holmes standing over a downed Watson, furiously fighting off the man that had broken into their flat. The intruder had received a tray to the back of the head, but not before Holmes had sustained a few injuries of his own. The unexpected blow to the back of the head had stunned the man, allowing Holmes to take him down, and Holmes had turned his attention to checking on Watson while Mrs. Hudson went for the police.

She made no reply, and Watson poured three cups of tea as Mrs. Hudson fought to banish the remains of her nightmare.

“You are scary with a tea tray, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson finally said when the silence had stretched too long.

She nearly laughed at Watson’s observation, and she did laugh when Holmes added, “But we already knew that.”

“How else am I supposed to get you to quit experimenting with my good china?”

Watson chuckled, the worry in his gaze fading as the lingering fear faded from hers. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

She hesitated and looked down, staring into the depths of her teacup as she quietly answered, “I…came in after the fight was over. The man had already left, and neither of you were moving.”

Watson tried not to let his surprise show. He had known Mrs. Hudson cared about them, of course—otherwise, she would have kicked Holmes out years ago, if not both of them—but the motherly affection she had always displayed went deeper than he had known for her to scream like that not because someone was attacking _her,_ but because someone had attacked _them_.

“You have had nightmares before.”

It was a statement—a deduction—not a question, but Mrs. Hudson nodded anyway, still staring into her tea to avoid eye contact.

Watson frowned, glancing between Holmes and Mrs. Hudson as he tried to decide how he could use Holmes’ deduction to help. She glanced up and caught his expression, however, and shook her head.

“I’m fine, Doctor. You don’t need to do anything.”

A flash of surprise lit his gaze. “Have you been taking deduction lessons from Holmes?”

She chuckled, but Holmes spoke up before she could reply. “Watson, your thoughts are written so plainly on your face there is no need to deduce. She can simply read them.”

He rolled his eyes, pretending to sit back in a huff, and Mrs. Hudson chuckled again.

“Are you truly alright, Mrs. Hudson?” Watson leaned forward in his chair again, his amusement fading as he watched her closely.

“Yes,” she replied firmly, beginning to relax in her chair. “Yes, I’m fine.” She took another sip of her tea, and a comfortable silence fell.

“Well,” she finally said, the last traces of her nightmare disappearing as she glanced at the clock she kept in the kitchen. “I think I am going to go back to bed. It is much too early to start the day.”

She left the room to a chorus of goodnights, and Watson led the way up the stairs.

“I believe I shall follow her example, Holmes,” he said, concealing a yawn. “We are supposed to meet Lestrade in the morning about the DeSmitt case last week. Maybe the storm rolling in will clear before we have to walk there in a downpour.”

Holmes’ responding ‘goodnight’ sounded a bit distracted, and he glanced down to find the detective studying him. He quickly turned away to hide his flush as he realized what he had just said. He had hidden his discomfort for most of the evening, but he needed no help to follow Holmes’ quick deductions. He knew a storm was rolling in because of his injuries—mostly old, but new as well, and he cursed himself for allowing such a thing to slip out. Holmes had been worried enough for most of the night, despite his injuries from the fight being rather minor, and now he had all but announced that they might not be so minor after all.

He mounted the stairs, heading to his room as he wondered if Holmes would reply. His friend said nothing, however, though Watson reached the top of the stairs before Holmes entered the sitting room, and Watson eased himself into bed.

If he smiled at the faint sounds of a violin drifting through the floor a few minutes later, there was no need to mention it in the morning. Holmes probably already knew.


	7. The Coming of Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade knows never to disregard a child's cry for help...especially if that child is trying to lead him to Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #7:  
> TICKY BOXES FOR THE WIN!!! You voted for it – you got it! Let your work today include a check box, tally mark, or other mark that records a preference.
> 
> Coincides with chapters 6 & 7 of Divide and Conquer

“Help! Someone help! _Please!”_

Every eye turned to look at the young lad running through the halls of Scotland Yard. The boy ran to the closest group of policemen he saw, grabbing an arm and jostling the pen they had been using to run through a checklist for a training exercise later.

“Please! They need help and the bobbie wouldn’t listen to me and the doctor was gone and no one would come and the screams were so _loud_.” He pulled, trying to drag the Yarder with him.

“Woah, lad. Slow down.” The constable put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, halting the tugging and directing the lad’s attention to him. “Who needs help?”

“Timothy!” Another voice interrupted as Lestrade strode closer. “What are you doing on this side of town?”

Leaving the group, Timothy ran to the man he recognized. “Mr. Lestrade. Mr. Holmes! The Doctor! Someone broke in and the bobbie wouldn’t listen to me! They need help!”

“Bennet!” Lestrade barked, and the constable that had first spoken to Timothy snapped to attention. “I saw Doctor Agar downstairs. Tell him he is needed at 221b Baker Street urgently! You four, come!”

There was no wagon available, and Timothy led them at a run all the way to Baker Street, jabbering about the screams and the gunshots he had heard from the flat despite running at full speed. The others occasionally managed a short question, getting as much information as they could, but all he knew was that he had heard gunshots, the doctor had been screaming, and Mr. Holmes had been the one to signal for help.

They received many strange looks, five uniformed Yarders bolting through the crowds on the heels of a small child, but no one interfered, and Timothy left them within sight of the flat. The sitting room was brightly lit, but there was no movement in front of the windows, and Lestrade feared the worst. What could have made the stalwart doctor scream loud enough for Timothy to hear from his spot on the other side of the street?

Mrs. Hudson must have been watching for them, as the door opened before Lestrade could try the handle, and they rushed inside.

“The sitting room,” she confirmed unnecessarily, the worry written over her face saying more than any words could have. Lestrade took the stairs two at a time, his uneven steps disappearing amidst the pounding of the others running up every stair.

The first thing Lestrade noticed upon opening the door was the destruction that came from a fight. The second, that Doctor Watson lay on the floor with a worried, bleeding detective leaning over him. Another man lay unconscious and bound in the corner.

“What took you so long?” Holmes snapped.

Lestrade relaxed, the immediate danger obviously over, and signaled the others to take care of the prisoner as the doctor falteringly reached over to place his hand on the detective’s arm. Holmes’ gaze sharpened, and Lestrade let the comment pass as a flicker of remorse crossed the other man’s face, knowing the snapped near-reprimand had been born of worry, not anger. He moved across the room to where Holmes knelt next Doctor Watson.

“How is the doctor, and who is he?” Lestrade asked, gesturing to the unmoving lump bound in the corner. The constable Lestrade had taken off the closest beat pulled up to the door below with a wagon, and the others carried the unconscious man out of the sitting room and down the stairs. Lestrade moved closer, frowning in worry as he studied both of them. The detective was covered in bruises and bleeding from what looked like a gunshot wound on his arm, and Watson was no longer even looking at him. He did not like the vacancy of the gaze flitting around the room.

“James Carter,” Holmes said shortly, worriedly watching as Watson’s focus wandered. “Brother of Andrew Carter, that kidnapper last week. He decided I was to blame for his brother going to prison. Watson, can you hear me?”

There was no response. Watson’s gaze remained staring through the wall, and Holmes glanced up at Lestrade. “I told Timothy to bring a doctor as well.”

“I am coming.” They both turned to look at the door, and Lestrade moved to let the other doctor come closer. The detective’s attention turned to Agar’s examination of Watson, and Lestrade took his leave. The doctor seemed out of danger, whatever had happened, and Lestrade felt he would only be in the way. He could get the details later, when he came back for their statements on what had happened this night.

Out of danger or not, his worry did not decrease until he returned the next morning to find the doctor awake and lucid.


	8. Blooming Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson learns that sometimes it can be good to remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #8  
> A Floral Bouquet: Let anything involving flowers inspire you today. Wedding bouquet, funeral wreath, hay fever - all of flora is yours to explore!

“Holmes, are you ready to go?”

He opened the door to the sitting room, expecting to find Holmes waiting, but the room was empty.

“Holmes?”

“I will be out in a minute!” Holmes’ voice came from his room.

Watson shook his head, moving further into the sitting room with a faint chuckle. He had reminded Holmes several times about the concert they had planned for this evening, but Holmes’ chemistry set showed signs of recent use. The detective must have lost track of time again.

Judging by the hurried sounds emitting from the bedroom, he had at least a few minutes before Holmes would be ready, and he turned toward his armchair to sit while he waited. Something new caught his attention, however, and he looked.

A single white flower sat in a vase on the end table, and he froze, memories washing over him.

Mary had always loved lilies, no matter the color, but the white and pale yellow ones were her favorite. She had filled their sitting room with lilies and their house with the cloying scent, leaving Watson sneezing and laughing at how many flowers she could find on any given day. It had amused him at the time, but in the years since her death, he had found lilies to be a powerful reminder of his love. Years of painfully pleasant memories came to the fore, and he let them, staring at that flower as he skipped lightly through time.

“Shall we go, Watson?”

Holmes’ voice from the doorway startled him, and he jumped, settling back into the present with a faint sigh. With one last glance at the flower decorating the end table, he turned to see Holmes staring at him, confusion and a bit of worry mixing in the detective’s face at Watson’s reaction.

“Watson?”

A faint smile crossed Watson’s face as he walked towards the door, and he shook his head. “I’m fine, Holmes.”

Holmes made no answer, only leading the way out of the flat, and Watson remained silent until they reached the street.

“Where did the lily come from?”

“Mrs. Rose stopped by while you were out, wanting to thank us again for finding her husband. She said the lily had come from her garden.” Holmes shrugged, looking away. “I do not care much for flowers, but I realized the time before I could throw it out.” Holmes paused a moment, staring at the cobblestones as he thought of something. “I thought you liked lilies?”

Another memory came to mind, and a sad smile crossed his face, but he made no immediate reply. He fixed his gaze on the street ahead of them, looking at the crowd flowing across the street instead of acknowledging Holmes’ question.

“Watson?”

He sighed. “Mary liked them,” he finally said quietly. “She used to fill the house with them. That is probably what you remember.”

Regret flickered in Holmes’ gaze. “I will get rid of it,” he promised.

Watson hesitated for a long moment, then shook his head. “Do not worry about it,” he said, then paused, weighing his words. “Sometimes it is good to remember.”

Confusion replaced the regret, but Holmes said nothing, and they walked in silence for a few minutes before a deduction from Holmes set them to laughing.


	9. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes may be a brilliant detective, but there is one thing he will always find awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #9  
> Basic Chemistry: Describe an event in the early days of Holmes and Watson.

He closed the door quietly, trying not to alert his flatmate that he was home. He needed to reach his room so he could treat the gash lancing pain down his side, and that would be easier if Watson did not notice his return before he reached the landing. The cut was in a bad spot, and he would have to take the stairs slowly to avoid limping.

A different set of limping footsteps sounded in the sitting room before he made it halfway up the steps, however, and he cursed under his breath. Watson must have been listening for him to return.

“Holmes?” he heard, the underlying question carrying easily through the name.

“I am alright, Watson,” he voiced, ignoring how much he disliked outright lying. It was not a lie if he redefined the word. “O’Connell nearly escaped, and after chasing him for nearly a mile, I simply have no wish to move quickly.”

There was no response, though he was overly aware of Watson’s frowning gaze as he slowly climbed the stairs. He finally looked up as he reached the landing to find Watson staring at him, a frown marring the doctor’s face, and he quirked a grin, acknowledging the gaze while attempting not to welcome discussion as he slowly moved to his room. If he could make it past where Watson stood near the railing, Watson would not be able to notice his true reason for moving so slowly.

Watson’s gaze followed him as he drew closer, and he quirked an eyebrow, mutely asking why his flatmate was staring when there was nothing wrong. Watson would not pry if it became awkward, and he had no problem with using that for his own gain. He needed to reach his room—without his flatmate noticing the injury.

Passing Watson on the landing, he had just begun to think he had succeeded when Watson voiced a question.

“Knife or fall?”

He started, glancing over to catch Watson’s gaze locked firmly on where the knife had scored his side. His jacket covered the injury, and Watson could not have known about the danger Holmes had expected. What had given him away?

He opened his mouth to brush off the question and redirect, but Watson cut him off, gesturing to where the pain was lancing down his side.

“You have a red-tainted rip in your shirt, you run more than a mile on a regular basis, and you never walk so slowly, even when you are truly tired. Of course, I am going to check you for injury.” He motioned into the sitting room. “Now let me dress that. Was it caused by a knife?”

He hesitated, preferring to treat it himself rather than impose on his flatmate, but his body betrayed him. The room seemed to spin for a moment, and he grabbed the wall as Watson tried to lunge forward. The storm outside had been wreaking havoc with the doctor’s barely-healed wounds, however, and he was moving no faster than Holmes himself. The dizziness passed before Watson had more than halfway closed the gap between them, and he waved off the aid.

“I am fine,” he insisted. There was no need for the worry etching Watson’s expression, but Holmes relented, leading the way into the sitting room despite preferring to treat it himself. “It was a knife,” he answered as he lowered himself onto the settee. He pulled his jacket and shirt away from the cut as Watson dragged his bag over.

The wound was painful and deep, but it was small, and what would have taken Holmes nearly half an hour to clean and bandage only took Watson a few minutes. When he finished, Watson set the bag on the floor next to the settee instead of near his desk as he usually did, and Holmes covered a frown as he leaned back into the cushions, confused at why Watson would keep the medical bag nearby; the cut was minor, however painful. Watson ignored Holmes’ questioning gaze as he moved around the room, and within a few minutes, a pitcher of water, a glass, a few of Holmes’ current research books, and some cold cuts and cakes leftover from Watson’s luncheon appeared on the end table. After another long moment spent staring at him, his pipe and tobacco joined the other items, and Watson settled with a novel, adding to Holmes’ confusion. Before Holmes had returned, Watson had been writing at his desk. Why would he begin a novel in his armchair instead of returning to his writing?

He rather liked the company, however, and, not wanting his question to make Watson leave, he left the topic for the moment as he started flipping through the books Watson had set next to him. The afternoon passed slowly, and Holmes felt Watson’s gaze on him several times over the hours. He refrained from commenting even as he struggled to understand why his flatmate would change his afternoon plans just because Holmes had received a minor injury.

The question bothered him, and his dislike of not knowing something eventually outweighed his wariness in asking. He finally tried to voice the question as they settled at the table for supper that evening.

“Why?”

Watson looked up from his plate, frowning in confusion. “Why what?”

Right, he continually forgot that Watson could not read his line of thought as he could read Watson’s.

“Why—” He faltered, and tried again. “Why would you insist on treating it when I could take care of it myself…and why would you stop the writing you were doing before I arrived to read a book?”

Watson stared at him for a long moment, the doctor’s thoughts chasing a memory, and Holmes was just about to decide Watson would not answer when his flatmate’s gaze cleared. A small smile, born more of nostalgia than amusement, crossed Watson’s face, and he answered quietly. “Friends stay close to friends, Holmes.” He looked back at his plate and quoted quietly, unaware Holmes could still hear him, “You always stay close to your friends. It provides more help than you will ever know.”

Holmes struggled to wipe the surprise from his face, turning back to his plate so Watson would not notice should he glance up. Friends? Watson considered him a friend? It had been many years since he had last—and first—considered someone a friend, and that had ended with Trevor leaving for India. He was not sure he could even count that; it had been a friendship more out of convenience than anything else.

He rather liked having Watson around, though, and if Watson considered him a friend, he would have to return the friendship to keep it. He knew that. There was only one problem with that knowledge.

How does one be a friend?


	10. In Search of Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes searches for a different kind of understanding...and finds himself out of his depth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #10  
> Let's Play a Game: Today's prompt is another popular one from a previous JWP: games.
> 
> You will not fully understand this unless you have read my story The Effects of War.  
> Prequel to Gathering Data

_This_ _isn’t one of your_ games _, Holmes!_

He frowned into the fireplace, the silence echoing around him. Did Watson really think the last few years had been a game?

_What if I had made it to my revolver? I could have killed you!_

Or did he think that Holmes did not value his own life?

Watson was out, doing his rounds before and after a meeting with the young doctor Holmes had set up to buy Watson’s Kensington house and practice, and Holmes was taking the time alone to think over the changes time had wrought in his friend. He had returned to England to find a very different Watson than the one he had left. His old friend was a shadow of himself—barely eating, never sleeping, and prone to nightmares. It had taken a few days shy of a month to convince the doctor to move back to Baker Street, and that had almost dissolved before his eyes when Watson had a hypnagogic regression after a beaker broke in Holmes’ experiment—the first regression Holmes had ever seen.

_Through my own fault I lost you once; I can't survive that again!_

He nearly flinched as the words reverberated in his mind. Watson had hidden most of the effects of war when they had first started sharing rooms, and he would have continued to do so if Holmes’ experiment had not combined with a few other things to bring the memories to the fore. The regression had left Watson disoriented, unsure what was real and what was memory, and it had taken over ten minutes for Watson to land fully back in the present even after the first sign of recognition, which was almost as bad was what had happened _during_ the regression.

Watson had looked at him, seen an enemy, and attacked.

He ran a finger over the barely-healed bruise as he thought. The regression had prevented Watson from recognizing him, had rendered reality a dream and a memory reality. Another event came to mind, one that had happened over a month prior, and his frown deepened.

How many times had dreams become reality since Mary’s death?

There was no way of knowing, and he turned his thoughts back to the original question: did Watson really think that the last few years had been a game?

He knew he was often self-centered, projecting the idea that he did not notice or care about those around him, but he had always noticed; he just forgot to show it, and a discussion with a wise monk in Tibet had pointed that out after Holmes had shared true events while ill and under the other man’s care. They had had many long conversations during Holmes’ convalescence, resulting in Holmes coming away with a greater understanding of other people that went far deeper than simple observation ever could.

But even this greater understanding did not seem capable of helping him understand his friend. He had not expected Watson to change so much in the scant few months since Mary’s death. Mycroft had been watching Watson closely, and every note he had received before the holidays had contained no cause for worry. Watson had been fine until the new year. Had something changed to make him think that the last few years had been anything but a stressful flight for his life?

Their lives. It had been a stressful flight for their lives, but Watson did not know about that, and Holmes doubted he would ever be able to say it. Even without that knowledge, though, how could Watson think Holmes would leave London if the situation were anything but dire? Watson knew how much Holmes hated traveling, how much Holmes despised leaving his city. This was his home; he would not have spent three years wandering the continent if there had been any other choice.

Watson knew that…right? Holmes thought back, trying to recall a time when he had said or shown those truths.

Yes, Watson had known his dislike of travel; the doctor had commented on it after the third case in a row had taken them out of London.

When they had discussed the time he had been away, however, he had not fully voiced that the last three years had been spent on the move, so a better question was, Did Watson know that London was home, that Holmes would not have left if there had been any other choice?

He thought about that for several minutes, but he was forced to admit that he could not recall ever voicing such a thing, and he should know better than to rely on Watson reading hints. His friend was much more observant than he gave himself credit for in those ridiculous stories of his, but his observational ability did not extend to the same level of detail as Holmes’.

Had that caused Watson to think that Holmes had left for a game? Did Watson feel abandoned, discarded?

He struggled to reason it out, but he was far out of his depth when it came to such sentiment. How could he understand someone else’s feelings when he had never learned how to handle his own?

He stopped fighting it after a few minutes, willing to admit that this was more than he could understand on his own. He needed more data, but who could he ask? He usually asked Watson these kinds of questions, but he could hardly do that this time. He thought for another moment before pulling himself to his feet.

Lestrade was not on duty today. Maybe the inspector would be willing to meet him at the riverfront bench Watson used to frequent before his marriage. He knew the other man was still angry—rightfully—but Lestrade considered Watson a friend, and he would have noticed what had happened while Holmes was gone.

Lestrade might be furious with him, but the inspector would want to help their friend just as much as Holmes himself did.


	11. Telegrams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The telephones were relatively new, but Watson should have at least sent a telegram if he knew he would not make his train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #11  
> Over the Ropes: Watson's rugby-playing past is several times alluded to in canon. Write about a sporting woe for Watson, whether related to rugby or roller derby or something else..
> 
> Takes place only a few months after Holmes retires.

He paced the sitting room in worry, barely noting the steps he took between opposite walls.

Where was he?

Watson’s note had said to expect him on the morning train, which would have put him at the cottage sometime around ten, but it was well past that, and the front door remained closed. If something had come up that prevented the doctor from coming out, he would have sent a message. Something was wrong.

He continued pacing the sitting room, listening for movement outside as the time slowly ticked by. Occasionally, he glanced out the window, but the road came from behind the cottage; he would not see anyone arriving until they reached the door. For now, he could do nothing but wait.

Footsteps sounded outside, and he spun for the door as a knock resounded. Finally!

He lunged, crossing the room in a scant three steps to fling open the door, prepared to see Watson standing somewhat sheepishly on the step, apologetic for being so late.

Watson was nowhere to be seen. Stackhurst stood there instead, his smile of greeting dying as he saw how harried Holmes was.

“The doctor has not arrived yet?”

“No,” he replied shortly, resuming his pacing.

“I am sure there is nothing wrong,” Stackhurst said. “His train was probably just delayed.”

Holmes glanced up at the clock as he continued to pace, then shook his head. “He should have arrived nearly two hours ago, and you know he _always_ sends word if something prevents him from coming.” He made no attempt to hide the worry in his voice, and with another glance at the clock, he made a decision. He stepped briefly into the other room before Stackhurst could do more than frown.

“I am going to London,” Holmes announced as he emerged from the bedroom, draping an overcoat over his arm and grabbing his hat. “If I leave now, I can catch the twelve forty-five train. Do you mind locking up the cottage?”

More concerned with what had kept Watson from arriving in Sussex than on whether his door was locked, Holmes was out the door and nearly running toward the station before Stackhurst’s “not a bit” reached his ears.

He was too restless during the long train ride to sit still, spending most of the time pacing the compartment. What could have prevented Watson from sending a telegram—or even calling? Holmes had tried calling several times over the course of the day, with no answer. The telephones they had were new, both in terms of the invention and their placement in the kitchen, so he supposed it was possible Watson had not thought to call—something new took time to grow accustomed to using—but he should have sent a telegram.

What could happen that would prevent Watson from sending a telegram?

He saved himself a run when he found an available cab at the London station, and within a few minutes, he was standing in front of Watson’s practice on Queen Anne Street.

The windows were unlit in the fading light, and his worry deepened. If Watson was not home, Holmes would have to begin checking the stations between London and Sussex, but he had no way of knowing if Watson had even made the train.

No one answered his knock, and he let himself in with the key Watson had given him, quickly making his way through the toy-strewn consulting rooms to the living quarters in back.

“Watson? Are you here?”

Silence answered him, and he moved further into the house, looking for anything that might give him an idea of where Watson had gone. Papers littered the desk intermixed with medical supplies, books were stacked near the armchair, and a train ticket sat on the table near the door.

He picked up the train ticket, resisting the urge to sag against the wall as he read the date listed. Watson had not tried to catch the train; judging by the state of the rooms, he had not even packed. The telegram with Watson's train time had come the night before. Anything could have happened in twenty-four hours.

A rustling sound reached his ears, and he tore his attention away from the unused ticket to look around, trying to identify the noise.

It came again, and a faint light flickered to life in the other room. The ticket fluttered to the floor.

“Watson?!”

_“Holmes?”_

Quickly crossing Watson’s sitting room, he halted in the bedroom doorway, taking in the scene in front of him.

Watson was in bed, a book open on his lap and a mound of pillows both behind him and beneath his bandaged knee. He stared at the door with surprise and confusion in his face.

“What are you doing here? I told you it wasn’t serious.”

“Why do you think I am here?” he asked, walking in to stand at the foot of the bed as he scowled to hide his worry. “You never arrived at the cottage, and no one would answer the telephone.” He paused, the rest of Watson’s words registering. “What do you mean you told me?”

Watson frowned, likely seeing the worry Holmes tried to hide. “You didn’t receive my telegram?”

“No.” Holmes frowned, scanning Watson for further injury, but all he saw was the bandaged knee. “You are alright?”

Watson smiled gently. “Of course.” He gestured to his knee. “One of my younger patients left his football in the middle of the consulting room, and my knee did not agree with the resulting tumble.”

Holmes dragged a chair closer, studying Watson to make sure the doctor was not hiding something. “You tore the ligaments again, did you not?”

Watson nodded. “I did tell you that that knee was weaker after that day, and it being my bad leg anyway…” He trailed off, shrugging away the rest of the sentence as he leaned into the pillows. “I will have to stay mostly off it for a few days. I sent you the telegram when I knew I would not be able to make the train.”

“It never arrived,” Holmes answered, “and when you did not show up, I tried to call.”

Watson frowned. “The maid should have answered it this morning,” he said apologetically, “but she left just after ten, and I cannot hear it in here.”

“You have been here _alone_?” Holmes' irritation leaked into his voice, and he chided himself for it as Watson shrugged again.

“There was no reason for her to stay when I have no patients,” he answered. “She left enough on the table there for lunch and dinner, and I have a stack of books to read. She said she would be back in the morning to check on me and cook for the day.”

Holmes looked around the room, noting the plate of uneaten food on the side table and the books littering the bed as well as the pair of crutches leaning against the headboard.

“What are you thinking?”

He focused his attention back on Watson, who was staring at him.

“How long are you on bed rest?” he asked instead of answering.

Watson frowned but answered. “A week, maybe a few days more. Why?”

He looked around again, not liking the idea of Watson injured and alone in his rooms for much of the day.

“Would you like company?”

Watson stared at him for a moment, surprised, but the slowly spreading grin was all the answer Holmes needed. He nodded and stood. He would go back to Sussex, pack a bag, and return.

Not tonight, though. He would go in the morning, when Watson's maid should be available should the doctor need something.

Draping his overcoat on the chair, he made himself comfortable. Watson might enjoy hearing about the recent case involving a beekeeper.


	12. Scents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every city had its own scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #12:  
> From Kandahar to Tokyo: Set your offering in a locale other than England (or in the case of adaptations that have Holmes based in another country, that country) today.

I came to with a pounding headache. Every pulse throbbed at a place on the side of my head, and I lay still for a minute, waiting for the pain to subside.

When I could think more or less clearly, I tried to figure out what had happened. The last thing I recalled was the scuffing of a shoe on the path behind me, then…nothing. The man Holmes had been tracking must have doubled back and found me.

The sounds around me were different from what I last remembered, however, which meant the man had moved me after knocking me out. How far had he moved me?

My head hurt too much for me to try standing—or even opening my eyes—just yet, but I listened, and I smelled.

The sounds could have been any large city: there was a market to my left, and I could hear the sellers hawking their wares. Crowds of people passed within twenty feet or so of me, by the many footsteps, and I heard the clip clop of a horse and cart passing nearby.

The scents, however, were a different matter. Every city had its own scent, and I had traveled enough to know immediately where I was. Brackish water scented the air, a mixture of fresh and sea; unmistakably the scent of the Venice canals.

He had not taken me far, at least. We had not been more than a mile or two inland, last I remembered. Once I got my bearings, I hoped it would not take long for me to make my way back to where I had last seen Holmes.

My headache finally subsided to a dull throb, and I opened my eyes to find myself ten feet from a canal. It took a few tries, but after a few more minutes, I staggered to my feet and stumbled toward the market, both to reach a more populated area and to figure out exactly where I was.

The large open-air market filled the closest street, and crowds of people mingled and migrated here and there as if part of some large organism.

I smirked at the thought, recognizing the metaphor was a result of my head injury even as the thought amused me. If the crowd was some large organism, I was about to let it swallow me, and a Biblical story came to mind of someone else who had been swallowed by a large creature.

Diving into the crowd, I hoped the metaphor did not go quite that far. I had no wish to be wandering for three days.

My pounding head made it difficult to walk in a straight line, but the crowd refused a straight line, anyway, and I tried to match my stumbling steps to the gaps in the crowd. The thought crossed my mind that anyone who saw me probably assumed I was drunk, but I had bigger things to worry about—namely, finding Holmes before he moved too far away. We had gotten separated before the other man had found me, and there was a decent chance Holmes had not yet realized I had left the area.

I was growing weary of the press when I finally came out the other side of the market. Space opened up, though the street was still plenty crowded, and I began making my way north.

“Watson!”

A voice yelled from the middle of the crowd across the street, but, focused as I was on getting to where I last remembered seeing Holmes, I paid it no mind. It was just another voice yelling in the crowd and making my headache worse, and I leaned against a wall for a moment to catch my breath and let my headache ease a bit, trying to block out the crowd of people around me.

“Watson?”

I jerked in surprise and turned to look over my shoulder, leaning more heavily on the wall as the world spun in protest.

Holmes stood behind me, already beginning to inspect the knot blooming on the side of my head. Relief shot through me that I would not have to walk all the way back to where I had last seen him.

“Come,” he said, taking my arm. “We are not far from our rooms.”

“What about—?” My question cut off as I moved a trifle too quickly, but he answered as he started leading me back to our hotel rooms.

“I found his bolt hole when we were separated,” he said easily, slowing down to match my faltering pace. “We can go back later and watch for him.”

I did not reply immediately, focused on putting one foot in front of the other, but I eventually voiced another question.

“How did you find me?”

“I saw him grab you,” Holmes told replied, sounding a bit distracted as he maneuvered us through the people flowing to and from the market nearby, “and the cart he used to move you so quickly has a mended wheel. I was a simple matter to track it.”

My head was pounding too much for any further questions, and I turned my attention to following him through the crowd.


	13. Forget-me-not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes has done his part. It is time for Watson to do his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #13: Prompt was a picture of a sunlit forest.

The sunlight glinted through the trees, casting rays on the snow still lightly dusting the ground. Seated on a rock, he stared at the shimmering bands of light, embedding the scene into his memory. A squirrel hopped from branch to branch above his head. A bird started a song in a nearby tree. The stream bubbled at his feet.

He wanted to remember this. Always.

The wind rushed through the trees, sending the branches rustling and bringing another memory to life, of another day, another season, another year, with Mary in the cottage in the next clearing.

He was going to miss this place, but he had a duty to perform. He could only hope he could return when he was done.

He took a deep breath, noting the scent of the earth, the trees, the small, early flower blooming a bright shade of blue nearby. A bee buzzed through the clearing.

Holmes would find him any minute. It was time to voice what he had been planning for months.

A second bird added its song to the first, and footsteps came up behind him. Holmes silently joined him on the rock.

“You are becoming predictable,” Holmes said after a long moment.

He smirked, readjusting to bring Holmes into the visual memory he was creating. “You have been saying that for years.”

“It has been true for years.”

Watson did not answer, but he kept Holmes in his field of vision, staring past him as he made sure he would remember this in the difficult times to come.

A question broke the silence. “Why are you staring at me?”

Watson refocused, bringing his gaze to rest on his friend instead of on the forest beyond as he tried to remember the words he had rehearsed. Curiosity was primary in Holmes’ eyes, but worry began to creep in as Watson searched for words.

“Watson?” Holmes asked after Watson hesitated for too long. “What are you planning that you do not want to tell me?”

Watson hesitated for another moment before he sighed. “I have reenlisted,” he answered quietly.

Holmes stilled as the words drove home, and his expression went blank, so like how he had always appeared back in Baker Street. Holmes had mellowed over the years, especially after Watson joined him in retirement, but Holmes did not always allow his thoughts to show on his face, and Watson struggled now to read his friend’s reaction.

“Holmes?” Watson prodded after the silence stretched too long.

Holmes reanimated with a frown. “Why would you reenlist? You have done your part. Let the others do theirs.”

Watson shook his head. “You did your part in America, Holmes. It is time for me to do mine. My experience would be invaluable, and they will need me to save lives.”

“They do not need you, Watson,” Holmes insisted. “There are plenty of other doctors, all with plenty of experience. Stay here. You did your duty in Afghanistan.”

Watson sighed, and silence fell.

“Watson?”

“I ship out in two weeks.”

Holmes frowned, glancing around the clearing, and Watson could see him putting the pieces together.

“You came out here to create a memory, knowing I would find you eventually. Did you not?” Holmes’ gaze seemed to pierce Watson, begging him to dispute it, to say that he was not reenlisting after all, but Watson nodded.

“The confirmation came yesterday. I’ve joined an infantry unit. There will be a few weeks, perhaps a few months, of training in France, then we will go to wherever they need us. We will enter the fighting by August or September at the latest.”

Holmes looked down at the bench, blinking rapidly, and Watson looked around the clearing again, fixing it in his mind to bring to life in time of war.

“Well,” Holmes said, clearing his throat when the word broke. That seemed to fail, and he cleared his throat again and swallowed, hard.

Realizing the problem, Watson tried to form words of reassurance, but there was nothing he could say. He could not promise to come back, nor could he promise that it would be a short enlistment. Even Mycroft did not know how long this war would last, and Watson had only waited so long to enlist to have one full season in Sussex after moving the last fall. He had been selfish enough to allow himself one full season after Holmes’ two-year absence, but now it was his turn to go. It was his duty, and he could do no less, but that did not make it any easier.

There was a chance he would not return, that he would not see another winter in the cottage, that he would not have a first summer. He and Holmes both knew that, perhaps better than anyone else who had enlisted.

The birds stopped their song above them, and a quietness fell over the clearing where two old friends sat, knowing they may soon say a permanent farewell.


	14. Restful Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes silence is best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #14:  
> The Rest is Silence: Let your work today include a time when silence was essential or the main focus of attention. For example: Holmes staying silent and infuriating Watson; silence waiting for a telegram/phone call; silently waiting for a suspect...
> 
> Takes place the day after Doctors and Their Uses (and Counting)

After the constant noise of battle, the silence was comforting.

He leaned back in his chair. There had been times over the last few months he had thought he would never return to this, and he was grateful now for that young commander that had sent him home. He still thought he could be of help, but he had fulfilled his duty in going. He could remain home now without worry, and Holmes had made it clear that he was wanted here in Sussex.

Holmes. He glanced over to reassure himself that the retired detective was still digging through the mess he called a bedroom, relaxing as the movement registered. Telegrams had crossed in transit on his way home, and he had nearly returned to tragedy. He was grateful Lestrade had been here. And Stackhurst. His homecoming might've given Holmes a heart attack if not for them.

He readjusted in his chair, trying to get comfortable enough to read to his book. The rustling was nearly deafening in the silence permeating the room, and he stilled quickly. The quiet was too perfect to disturb.

He sighed in relief as silence fell again.

A bird chirped outside. A fly buzzed in through the open window. Quiet footsteps came from the bedroom.

Holmes appeared in the doorway, carrying the notebook he used for his beekeeping. He raised an eyebrow as Watson looked up at him, a silent question crossing the room, and Watson stood with a grin. Tucking his book beneath one arm, he followed Holmes out the door and took a deep breath as he stepped outside, enjoying the scent of grass and sea and earth much more than gunpower and blood and heat.

_The bullet cracked as it flew overhead, and he reflexively ducked though it was long gone. He looked over the field. Screaming and explosions mixed with the cries of the wounded around him, and he searched for someone to help._

He shook his head sharply, using the silence surrounding him to dislodge the memory. He was home. There was no reason to allow that memory.

Holmes glanced over at the sudden movement, but Watson waved away the question before it could form. He was fine. The memories were just too fresh; that was all.

Holmes led the way into the bee meadow, but Watson stopped at the bench at the meadow’s edge, ignoring Holmes’ attempt to wave him along. He saw no reason to go near the hives; it was bad enough they were so close to the house.

Affecting disappointment, Holmes continued into the meadow as Watson opened his book and made himself comfortable.

The sun shone brightly, illuminating the grass and the few trees still displaying their fall colors. The clear blue sky stretched above the horizon, denying any possibility of a shower, but that was alright. The bright sunshine could not be further than the wet weather on the front, and he relished the change. It could stay clear and bright for weeks without a complaint from him.

Holmes removed a frame from the closest hive, counting each type of bee he saw and noting down any patterns. A butterfly fluttered by, and he watched it, enjoying the bright yellow spot against the green and blue. Bees buzzed throughout the clearing, drifting here and there in search of food. A wasp drifted too close to the bench, and he killed it with his book. He had always hated wasps, and when Holmes told him that wasps would attack bees, he knew Holmes would never complain about finding them dead.

The silence was relaxing, and he sank onto the bench, getting as comfortable as he could on the hard stone.

He skimmed the text of his book, looking up too frequently to get more than a basic idea of the plot, but he could not bring himself to care. He was too busy making sure that this was not a dream, some flight of fancy he had imagined on the front.

A cool breeze offset the warm sun on his back. A bird burst into song in the trees above him. Holmes’ bees hummed as he opened another hive.

He looked around him, taking in his surroundings and comparing it to the winter he had spent here before enlisting. The grass was greener, and there was no snow on the ground yet. Most of the summer animals had not yet transitioned to winter habitation.

He looked forward to another winter, one warmer than any he had spent in London, followed by a full spring and summer. It would be nice to watch a full turning of seasons. He had not done so in the country since childhood.

Holmes swatted a bee away from his face, and Watson could not restrain a chuckle. There had been many stings over the years, though Holmes had gotten better at not angering his precious bees, but each one never failed to amuse Watson. Holmes always got so irritated when his bees turned on him, and Watson frequently pointed out that the bees did not know him from the closest tree, except that the tree was less likely to go after their honey. Holmes rarely answered with anything more than a huff as he tried to cover his amusement with irritation.

He chuckled again as the memory faded. Holmes had been trying to get him to help with the bees since the detective first moved to Sussex, and Watson had been adamantly avoiding the hives for just as long. He saw no reason to purposely go near flying stinging things that could turn on him at any moment, and he had no plans to get anywhere close to the hives any time soon.

Waves crashed against the shore. Gulls cried overhead. The leaves whispered to the breeze.

Holmes abandoned that hive and moved to the next one, clouds of smoke rising around the hive as he opened it, and Watson turned his attention back to his book. An interesting part drew his attention, and he read for several minutes before looking up again.

He found an empty row of hives, and he searched the meadow, checking where Holmes had wandered. An empty clearing met his search, and he frowned, searching again as a sense of déjà vu washed over him. He had dreamt this before.

He stood, trying to spot Holmes before the dream ended, before he woke back on the front. He hated the dreams where he returned from war to find the cottage empty, deserted, and if this day had been merely a dream, he wanted to at least finish it knowing Holmes was safe.

There was no sign of Holmes, and he set his book down and moved away from the bench, scanning the clearing for movement.

Something moved to his left, and he spun, searching the edge of the forest for the cause. A shadow appeared through the trees, and he stared harder, forcing his eyes to make sense of the shape. Tension fled from his shoulders a moment later, and he returned to the bench as Holmes wandered back into the clearing. Holmes was safe; if this was a dream, he could wake up, now.

But Holmes kept walking closer, and Watson smiled. Perhaps this was real, after all.

He settled back in with his book as Holmes resumed moving through the hives, glancing up occasionally. The silence enveloped him again, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

The silence was soothing.

There were no explosions, no gunshots, and no screams of pain. No planes droned overhead, making everyone duck for cover, and he did not need to worry about a plane crashing next to him. He could walk without worry of traps and the occasional land mine, and cloudy days were no more dangerous than sunny ones, except for the odd late-season thunderstorm.

The silence was welcome.

The breeze kicked up, sending Holmes’ papers fluttering to the ground, and Watson laughed. Holmes pretended irritation as he picked up the papers scattered over the ground, but the grin twitching his mouth rather ruined the attempt, and Watson’s grin widened before he turned back to his book.

A shadow covered the page a moment later, however, and he looked up to see Holmes leaning over him. Something landed on his shoulder, and he directed his gaze to find the largest bee he had ever seen resting on his jacket.

It was Holmes’ turn to laugh when Watson nearly fell off the bench trying to get the bee away from him without killing it, and Watson rolled his eyes. Retired or not, Holmes could _still_ be childish whenever the mood struck him. Still smirking, Holmes went back to his hives, and Watson searched his book for his page, unsure where he had stopped before dropping the book to escape the bee on his shoulder.

He settled back in as he found his spot, skimming the pages again more as something to do than out of any real interest. He glanced up occasionally, checking Holmes’ progress and making sure he had not angered his pets. Holmes pretended not to notice his looks, just as he pretended not to notice Holmes’ frequent glances, each wordlessly checking that the other was present.

A squirrel chattered in a nearby tree. Something four-legged bounded through the forest. A sandpiper flew overhead, searching for a new beach.

Another bird joined his song to the first.

Yes, he enjoyed the silence.


	15. Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He needed to wake up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #15&16  
> 24 is 48: Your prompt today is: time stretches. In honor of this prompt, you have twice as long (48 hours) before the next prompt appears. Bonus point: Write two entries for this prompt in the 48 hours.

The time seemed to stretch, elongating into a continuous stream of nothingness as I waited for him to move. As I waited for him to wake.

He needed to wake up. Would he ever wake up?

He remained still, his breathing deep in sleep. Changing out the cloth on his head for a cold one, I tabbed his pulse. It was strong and steady—no change from the last time I had checked.

That was better than it growing worse, but there had been no change in far too long. Stuck in the throes of a fever he had caught at the docks, he had not woken in over a day. His only movements had been the restless tossing and turning along with the occasional nightmares as his fever climbed.

I should have gone with him. I should have disregarded the pain in my old injuries to go with him. Something had felt _wrong_ about the stakeout, but I had written it off as worry that he would be out there without me at his back. A snowstorm had blown in overnight, and I much preferred a seat before the fire than a long, cold vigil waiting for a criminal. Lestrade had brought him back after midnight when the stakeout had failed. Holmes was nearly delirious with fever, and I had traded a cold vigil for a worried one.

I decided I much preferred the former.

He turned in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible as he grew more restless.

“Stay with me, Holmes,” I said calmly as I changed the cloth again, trying to prevent another round of nightmares. “You are alright.” He kept tossing, and I kept talking, rambling more than paying attention to what I was saying. My words skipped around nearly as much as my thoughts.

“You need to wake up, Holmes. You’ve been asleep long enough.

“Lestrade seemed rather worried about you, you know. You wouldn’t want him to think you couldn’t handle a stakeout, would you? It’s not like you were out there very long. What happened to that ‘iron constitution’ you have bragged about?

“The storm left several inches on the ground, and the Irregulars insisted you have promised them a round of snowballs. You know what I think of that, but I’ll leave that conversation to you.”

Holmes stilled, settling deeper into sleep, but I kept talking, rambling, anything to keep him calm. “Mycroft sent a message: something about needing you to look into a man paying too much attention to a building in Pall Mall. I had to reply that you were not able to help, and then I had to convince him that it was because you were sick. I think he nearly came here to see for himself. Your brother is more stubborn than you are, you know that?”

I changed out the cloths again and took my thermometer from my bag.

“You know, Holmes,” I said conversationally as I took his temperature, “I still haven’t paid you back for using me in an experiment last week. You definitely need to wake up for that. I need to borrow your chemistry set, though. I’ll try not to break anything. You don’t mind, right?”

I watched him for an endless moment, waiting, hoping for a reaction, but there was nothing. He never moved, though the thermometer said his fever had come down a bit, and I sighed, wringing out a fresh cloth.

“You need to wake up, Holmes.”

I sank into my chair, exhausted from worried days and sleepless nights, and the minutes stretched on as I continued talking, waiting for him to wake, using my voice to keep the dreams at bay.

“When I told you I wanted a quiet day inside, Holmes, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

“When he came to check on you, Lestrade said the man you had been hoping to catch showed up at the Yard the next day. According to Lestrade, he didn’t seem to understand why coming to report a theft resulted in him behind bars. Of course, he also didn’t seem to understand that the Yard was not going to help him track down the drugs he stole from the pharmacy. I think I’m deducing a theme, here. You should really wake up and tell me all the facts I’m missing.”

A paper on the table caught my eye, and I opened the telegram I had nearly forgotten about.

“Speaking of missing facts, Mycroft sent _another_ telegram asking when you would be able to start following this man. Didn’t you say he was high up in the government? Why would he need you to track someone, anyway? Maybe I should ask him if he knows what _ill_ means.

“Is this something that runs in the family? Because this fever is not something that hit in the space of an hour at the stakeout. How long did you ignore this?”

He twitched, turning his head to the side, and I stilled, waiting to see if he would wake.

“When you told me you could put off a cold for a day or two,” I continued when he showed no signs of waking, “I should have told you that ignoring a small illness was a fine way to turn it into a problem.”

My eyes tried to drift closed, and I forced myself to sit up, to stay awake. Holmes seemed to be sleeping peacefully, and I stopped talking in concession to my fatigue, taking his hand instead. I tabbed his pulse, first, but made no move to put his arm back beneath the covers as I stared at him. His fever was low enough he should have woken by now, and my worry grew with every minute he remained asleep.

“You need to wake up, Holmes,” I said with a quiet sigh as I let my chin fall to my chest. I was so _tired_. I hadn’t slept in days, had not been hungry in nearly as long—nor had time to eat, with the way Holmes’ fever had been fluctuating—and I was worried about him. I dearly wanted to sleep, but I refused to chance being unavailable if he needed me, and Mrs. Hudson was not home to sit with him for an hour or two. I struggled to stay awake, to stay alert, though sitting upright helped.

I was so tired, I nearly missed the twitch that tapped the back of my hand. I looked up as it came again, and Holmes slowly turned his head towards me, so like how he had been restlessly tossing and turning that I barely dared to hope.

His eyes opened a moment later, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Holmes?”

He blinked and looked over at me, then cut his gaze to the pitcher of water I had nearby. I poured a glass and helped him sit up to drink.

“Holmes?” I tried again as he lay back against the pillow.

He tried to speak, faltered, then tried again. “Stay away from the chemistry set,” he told me.

I laughed despite my fatigue. He would be fine.

Time sped back up.


	16. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better a cold vigil than a worried one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #15 & 16:  
> 24 is 48: Your prompt today is: time stretches. In honor of this prompt, you have twice as long (48 hours) before the next prompt appears. Bonus point: Write two entries for this prompt in the 48 hours.
> 
> Well, this one got away from me. I guess that’s what happens when I have a day and a half to write it, lol.  
> Sequel of sorts to How Brothers Fight

The minutes seemed to stretch into days as we waited for our man to leave the pub, and I huddled in our alcove, trying to get out of the wind whipping down the street. A cold wind had blown in and lowered the temperature as night fell, and I could not seem to stay warm.

Holmes crouched facing the street in front of me, motionless but for the wind blowing his scarf, and I envied him the ability to ignore the cold. I would have expected him to be colder than me, given our differences in builds, but he appeared unbothered as he waited for the signal that Smith was moving. I had apparently lost all ability to stay warm with this last, hot summer we had had.

I shrank further into the doorway, clenching my teeth to prevent their chatter though I could not still my shivering. I privately hoped Smith would leave soon, as I had no wish to stay out here much longer, but I would not voice my discomfort. Aside from my chattering teeth giving us away if I unclenched my jaw, I would not leave Holmes alone on another cold stakeout. Better a cold vigil than a worried one.

The Yarder on the next block stood, stretching, and Holmes tensed, watching for the second half of the signal. Smith had gone out a door we could not see.

His stretch done, the officer scratched his left leg, and I sat forward. Smith had turned our direction. He would reach us first.

A shape appeared out of the murk, leaning into the wind as he trudged up the street, and I forced myself to crouch beside Holmes in full reach of the cold. My shivering increased, but I kept my jaw clenched to avoid the noise giving us away.

Smith appeared to hate the weather nearly as much as I did, and his steps toward us were painfully slow. We waited—somewhat impatiently on my part—needing Smith to reach a certain spot on the sidewalk to have a sure chance of having him. If he escaped this attempt, we would probably never find him again. Smith was an escaped convict, and it had taken us five days to track him down.

Every moment seemed an age, with how cold I was, but finally Holmes lunged with me barely a step behind.

Smith went down without a fight, and Lestrade caught up to us with a constable a moment later. They took over cuffing Smith, and Holmes and I stood off to the side. I was surprised the man had not tried to resist, but I was not one to complain. It meant we would be able to go home that much faster.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said as several constables loaded Smith into a wagon. “Many will sleep better tonight, knowing that man is back where he belongs.”

Holmes nodded sharply. He was one of those who would sleep better, though he would never admit it. Smith had kidnapped seven people, brutally killing four of them before he had been caught. Most of the Yard had been following his trail since he escaped a local prison five days ago, but Holmes had driven himself hard, searching, tracing, following leads to track Smith down before he identified his next target. I was doubly glad we had found Smith; Holmes would not have been able to push himself that hard for much longer before it caught up with him.

Holmes opened his mouth to reply—probably a snide remark about the Yard not being perceptive enough—but Lestrade glanced over at me and spoke first, mild concern in his tone.

“Doctor, are you feeling alright?”

I knew better than to unclench my teeth, but I tried to nod through my shivering. I was just cold. I would be fine once we got back to Baker Street.

Holmes spun, staring at me in the lamplight, and a frown crossed his face. “Why did you not tell me you were cold?” he asked, drawing me further out of the wind as he tried to wave down a passing cab.

The cab ignored his signal, and I tried to wave off his question. I was just cold. I would warm up when we started walking home.

“I’m fine,” I managed to get out without my teeth chattering, but I dared not try to say any more than that. His frown deepened.

“Lestrade, can we use one of your wagons?” he asked, his gaze never leaving me.

Lestrade’s “of course” cut off my protest, and he quickly walked away as I frowned at Holmes. There was no need for such a fuss. I was just cold.

I fought off a yawn. And tired.

It seemed to take Lestrade forever to come back with that wagon, and all I wanted to do was leave. More than once, I tried to get Holmes to walk home with me, telling him I would be fine once we started walking, but he refused, claiming he did not want to walk, and if Lestrade was willing to let them use a wagon, he could wait a minute for one to become available.

I refrained from rolling my eyes at him. His “minute” felt more like ten, and I stepped back, huddling in the closest doorway to avoid some of the wind. It did little good, however, and my shivering was growing painful, combining with the normal aches the cold weather always caused to make it difficult to stand. With no reason now to stay alert, I eventually conceded to my leg’s demands and seated myself in the corner, leaning my aching head against the wall as I listened to the noise around me.

Another cab passed a block away. Several policemen stood on the other side of the street, chatting with the constable on his beat. Holmes paced the sidewalk, thinking through something aloud, though I paid little attention to his words.

The clip clop of a horse came closer, and a hand landed on my shoulder, shaking me.

“Watson! Watson, wake up!”

I kept my eyes closed as I frowned at him, wondering why he sounded nearly panicked. “Not asleep,” I replied, then added, “I’m glad the wind stopped.”

There was a long pause before he spoke again, his voice returning to something close to its normal tone. “Lestrade is here with the wagon. Come along.”

I opened my eyes at the words. A wagon had stopped at the curb, Lestrade in the driver’s seat, and I stared at it, trying to motivate myself to stand. I was hurting, I was tired, and there was no wind in my alcove at the moment. A walk even to the curb did not sound like a pleasant idea.

Holmes moved in front of me, interrupting my thoughts, and I looked up to see him hold out a hand.

“You must be terribly stiff, sitting there like that,” he told me.

I decided not to tell him what I had truly been thinking and let him pull me to my feet, swaying when my leg protested the sudden movement. He steadied me with a hand on my arm, letting me lean on him a bit in the absence of my stick as I limped to the wagon. It was one of the covered police wagons they used for transporting many officers at a time or suspects to the station, with a door in back and a bench to the driver’s seat in front, and it was to the bench that I directed my steps.

Holmes stopped me, however, trying to guide me around back to the covered portion.

I resisted. “You’re not locking me in there.”

He stared at me for a long moment. I wondered why he was taking so long to reply, but I did not bother to ask. I started to turn back to the bench, and he stopped me again.

“They will not shut the door,” he told me, “but it would get us out of the wind.”

What wind? I could no longer feel the cold wind that had been whipping around for hours, and I was glad of the break. It wasn’t even that cold anymore. Why would it matter if we were blocked from the wind of movement?

I didn’t know, but I also didn’t care, so long as the door remained open. I let him help me into the wagon, and we started moving as soon as Holmes sat down, bouncing along cobblestones with the slightly jerking movements of a trotting horse. It made my head ache even more, and I leaned against the corner as my stomach churned in protest.

“Watson?”

“Hmm?” I voiced tiredly, wishing I could sleep even as I knew the pain in my leg and shoulder would prevent it. It would be nice to sleep through the pain, to sleep until I was warm.

“Watson, you need to stay awake.”

I huffed at him. “I am awake. Can’t sleep. Head hurts.”

I frowned and shut my mouth lest another complaint break free. I hadn’t intended to voice that. I would be fine once we got home.

"Your head hurts?" he repeated after a moment. "Anything else?"

I waved away the question, huddling deeper into the corner of the wagon and ignoring the protests my shoulder voiced at every bump. "I'm fine."

"Watson," he insisted. "What else hurts?"

I frowned at him again, still without opening my eyes. "Didn’t mean to complain," I apologized.

We went around a corner, and a bit of frustration entered his voice when he replied a moment later.

"It is not complaining when I asked. What are you feeling?"

I sighed. "Head, shoulder, and leg hurt,” I said without opening my eyes. “I'm tired, and my stomach is upset. I'll feel better when we get home." I paused, then added, "At least I'm not shivering anymore."

He made no response, only scooting closer on the seat to let me lean against him instead of the wall, and time seemed to drag as I let the silence stretch. With my eyes closed, I could not read his thoughts in his gaze, and I was too tired to bother trying. I sank into my own thoughts, trying to block out how much I ached. The only words that broke the ensuing silence before Baker Street were Holmes', insisting that I needed to stay awake, followed by my increasingly irritated reply that I _was_ awake, and I couldn't sleep even though I wanted to. I was beginning to wonder if something was wrong, the way he kept repeating that demand that I stay awake.

The wagon finally bounced to a halt, and Lestrade’s voice floated down from the driver’s seat, announcing that we had arrived.

I tried to stand but tripped, and Holmes' arm appeared around mine, holding me steady as I descended to the street then stumbled up the steps to the door.

A wave of warmth slapped me in the face as we entered, and I sighed in relief. My shivering had stopped, yes, but I did not yet feel warm, and the pain in my leg and shoulder proved that some time spent before a fire would be a good idea just as the way I struggled with the stairs to our flat proved that I was not up to handing the ones to my bedroom. I staggered more than walked across the sitting room even with Holmes’ aid, but he stopped me when I tried to sit in my armchair.

"You need to get warm," he admonished when I protested the settee, "and that is more easily done with the settee pushed close to the fire."

It _was_ pushed closer to the fire, and I frowned, wondering when he had done that.

The door opened behind me, and Mrs. Hudson brought in some rugs as Holmes built the fire to a roaring blaze. I colored at all the fuss. I was fine. There was no need for them to wait on me.

They refused to let me help, however, so I pulled a rug over me and nearly fell into the cushions, fatigue taking over now that I was home. I still hurt too much to sleep, but at least I was home, Holmes was safe, and I could relax. I let my eyes drift closed, enjoying the warmth radiating from the fireplace in front of me.

Holmes renewed his insistence that I needed to stay awake when he looked up from building the fire, and I finally changed my response.

“You have said that already, many times,” I nearly growled, turning onto my side to scowl at him as I propped my aching shoulder against the back of the settee. “Why do you keep hounding on that?” He made no immediate answer, and I added another question, “And why do you keep hesitating before answering?”

He stood and grabbed another, thicker rug off the settee, wrapping it atop the one I had grabbed before answering the second question first. “I do not answer quickly because you are mumbling and slurring your words,” he told me quietly. I finally spotted the worry in his gaze as he continued, “and I will not let you fall asleep because we learned when studying the effects of cold that if someone goes to sleep before warming up completely, they may never wake up.” He paused, wrapping a third rug around me and reaching for a fourth. “I should have realized you would be more sensitive to cold after last spring.”

I frowned, my irritation fading behind confusion. Last spring? What would last spring have to do with the temperature now?

I finally realized how sluggish my thoughts were when it took a moment for the memory to come. I had nearly drowned last spring. Holmes had found me beneath the pier just in time, but he could not prevent the effects of the extremely cold water in which I had been floating for nearly twenty minutes.

“Shouldn’t matter,” I replied, trying to enunciate my words. I had no idea if I succeeded. “Cold sensitivity is not a laying effect of hypothermia.”

I frowned. That hadn’t sounded right. Something was wrong with that sentence, and I ran through it again in my mind. What was wrong with it?

A flicker of amusement joined the worry still on Holmes’ face when he finally replied. “I believe you mean ‘lasting effect,’ and you are correct. We did not find that listed in the books we studied. I, however, found it later, when I researched the topic again after what happened on the pier. It does not always appear, and I found nothing about it continuing for longer than a few months, but we shall have to be careful this winter to make sure you do not get too cold. What you used to tolerate easily could be too much for you, now.”

My irritation returned at the idea that he might have a reason to prevent me from joining him on his cases, but I made no reply. I was too tired to argue about it now; I would take each situation as it came.

Silence fell over the sitting room, broken only by the crackling of the fire as Holmes sat in his chair, staring at me. I fought to keep my eyes open as time seemed to drag. The longer I lay there, the more I wanted to sleep, and I longed for Holmes to decide I had warmed up enough.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes, chattering of teeth snapped me out of the beginnings of a doze, and a deep chill settled over me, seeping into my bones as I began to tremble.

Holmes did not completely smother his sigh of relief. “Good. You are finally thawing.”

Mrs. Hudson walked through the door on the heels of his statement, carrying a tray, and shortly I found myself with two hot water bottles tucked into the blankets and a cup of tea on the table next to me. She and Holmes exchanged a few comments before she walked back out of the sitting room, but I paid little attention, too busy readjusting on the settee.

I left the tea until I would be able to drink it without spilling, but I wrapped the blankets firmly around myself and those hot water bottles, nearly burrowing into the faint warmth. With a bit of maneuvering, I managed to get one right next to my shoulder, and I nearly sighed as the heat penetrated the complaining scar tissue. I sank into the rugs and the warmth I was slowly building in my cocoon, relaxing as much as I could with the tremors still shaking me. The hot water bottle near my shoulder was putting out a wonderful amount of heat, and I could feel the old injury slowly relaxing, the pain dying as my shoulder warmed. It became much harder to stay awake, and Holmes’ calls got louder each time, until he nearly had to shake me to get me to respond.

“Watson!” His voice came again, rousing me from the edge. “Watson, you cannot go to sleep!”

Each eyelid felt weighted, and I forced my eyes open again, not realizing I had closed them. Holmes knelt by the settee, and relief flickered in his gaze as I blearily scowled at him, another flash of irritation shooting through me.

“Let m-me sleep,” I told him through my shivering, trying to focus with the way the room kept tilting. Why would the room not hold still? It hadn’t been doing that earlier.

His response came a touch faster than it had last time. “Not until I know you are sufficiently warmed. How are you feeling?”

I groaned, letting my eyes slide shut just as much from my fatigue as to take a break from watching the walls tilt and spin. “Tired. Still hurt, but not as bad. Let me sleep. I’ll be fine, and I’m tired of the walls tilting.”

“You are feeling dizzy?”

“S-said that already,” I grumbled, nestling harder against the hot water bottle at my back.

“Stay awake, Watson. Are you feeling anything else new besides dizzy?”

Something in his voice caught my attention, and I thought about that for a moment. Why would he sound so close to panicked? I was exhausted; of course, I would start getting dizzy.

“Watson!” Fingers touched my forehead, and I jumped, realizing I had started to drift off.

“I’m just tired,” I grumbled, pushing his fingers off my forehead and pulling the blankets up to my ears. “I’m nearly warm. I’ll be perfect after some sleep.”

“Shivering. Not slurring,” I heard him mutter as his fingers lightly brushed my forehead again. They disappeared before I could shove him away, and he continued, “but those books never said anything about dizziness. No trace of fever, but that could be because he is not yet warm.”

“Fatigue,” I replied, refusing to reopen my eyes. The vertigo was annoying. “Exhaustion can cause dizziness. Let me sleep.”

His irritated huff carried an element of amusement. “You are feeling better, if you are answering when I start thinking aloud.”

I merely smirked, trying to wrap the blankets tighter around me. The shivering was finally slowing, and it was growing almost hot under the many blankets surrounding me. The pulsing heat felt wonderful.

“Stay awake, Watson.”

I mumbled something to the effect of “no,” but he persisted, tapping my face until I snaked a hand from beneath the covers to swat at him.

“Watson, stay awake until you stop shivering completely.”

I huffed, cracking an eye open as I told him what to do with that suggestion, and he barked a laugh. The room tried to spin around me again, and I let that eyelid fall shut as he replied, “That was not a suggestion, Watson. Stay awake until you stop shivering.”

I frowned at him, grumbling about detectives trying to be doctors, and tried to forcibly stop my shivering.

That lasted all of ten seconds, and I know Holmes smirked when he realized what I had tried to do.

“You ought to know that does not work, though I commend you for trying,” he told me facetiously. I merely grumbled some more, readjusting the rugs so I could bounce one foot without moving anything else or letting in a draft. With that serving as confirmation that I was still awake, he fell silent, though I could feel him watching me from his seat in his armchair.

Just because I knew he was right did not mean I had to like it, and time stretched as I waited for my shivering to slow. Occasionally, he would say my name, and I would realize I had stopped bouncing my foot, but we exchanged no more conversation. Now that I could control my shivering for short periods of time, I sipped on the tea Mrs. Hudson had brought up. It was overly sweet, however, and I did not drink much of it. I was too tired to really move.

It seemed to take forever, but my trembling eventually slowed from constant to sporadic, then stopped altogether, and I sighed in relief as I relaxed fully into the cushions. I was asleep before I finished the exhale.

The next several hours flew much faster than the previous had, as I did not open my eyes until just after noon.


	17. Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something about the details bothered him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #17:  
> Wrong! Have a character discover that he or she remembers a pivotal life event incorrectly.

“Tell me about Afghanistan.”

My gaze shot up from the fire to find him staring at me from his seat in the other armchair. “How did you—?”

He quirked a smile. “It is hot, uncommonly dry, and you have been staring into the fireplace for nearly twenty minutes. You have told me other pieces. Tell me about Afghanistan.”

I looked back into the fire, hesitating. “There is not much to tell. It was hot and sandy. Battle was chaos, and camp was fear.” I paused, then added, “The Ghazi’s favorite time to attack was the early hours of the morning. There were many nights when sleep became battle, whether for us or someone else nearby.”

“That is how you learned to sleep through explosions.”

I smirked, remembering the befuddlement on his face a few days before when I had not moved from my place on the settee after his experiment exploded. “Yes. Just because we could hear them did not mean we could help them, and if we could not help, there was no reason to stay awake.”

“How long were you there?”

I thought about that. “A year or so, I think. Much of that was spent moving from place to place. We probably found ourselves in battle more while traveling than we did under orders. The Afghans preferred to attack from the cover of rocks and valleys. We would have soldiers drop dead before we knew we were no longer alone.”

Holmes shuddered at the imagery, probably understanding why I was always so on guard while we were on a case.

“And your shoulder?” he asked.

I realized I was rubbing my old wound, and I forced my hands to rest in my lap as I kept my gaze on the fire. “What of it?”

“What happened?”

“A Jezail bullet found me during the retreat.” I glanced up to see a flicker of confusion in his gaze and explained, “A Jezail bullet is a homemade scrap bullet. It essentially explodes on impact.”

“So you still have pieces—” He broke off, staring at me, and I finished for him.

“Most of the bullet is still in my shoulder,” I said candidly. “Some days, I could probably point to everywhere the metal now sits.”

Something about that seemed to bother him immensely, and silence fell as I turned back to the fire. Eventually, he asked another question.

“What about your leg?”

I reflexively glanced down. “It was a graze,” I replied. “The bullet clipped my leg during the retreat.” Something about that sounded wrong, and I hesitated. “Or did it happen on the journey to Kandahar?” I thought for another moment before shrugging it off. “What does it matter, now? The end result is the same.” I gestured to the foot I had propped on the ottoman close to the fire. “It damaged the Achilles tendon. They said I was lucky to be able to walk, especially since it went so long without being treated.” I glanced up to find him staring at me. “I have told you the only reason I survived was my orderly, Murray,” I told him.

He tore his gaze away from me to look in the fire before answering. “I did not realize—” He cut off with a swallow.

“It is in the past, Holmes. It doesn’t matter.”

He glanced up at me before directing his gaze back to the fire, and I wondered why the details were bothering him so badly. He had known about my injuries for years, though I had been careful to hide as many of their effects as I could. He probably knew that the weather affected my injuries, but I doubted he knew much more than that.

“Why does that bother you so much?” I finally asked when he remained quiet for too long.

He shook his head, refusing to answer, and I tried again.

“Holmes? It is fine, really. It happened years ago.”

He continued staring into the fire, and I fell silent, unsure what was bothering him so much but unwilling to interrupt his thoughts. He reanimated with a start after a few minutes, but he turned the conversation to a recent case before I could ask what he had been thinking.

I tried again a few days later, but he never would answer my question, and I eventually gave up asking.


	18. Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson never called only to fall silent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #18:  
> Intriguing phrase: Finish this phrase, or be inspired by it: The first - and only - time Holmes ever saw Watson pick up a gun in his bedroom was also the day…
> 
> Builds heavily off Courage. You may not fully understand this unless you have read Courage

“Holmes!”

The call faintly carried from the house to the meadow where Holmes was observing his bees. He barely noticed it, caught up in the notes he was taking. One of his hives had a new queen.

“Holmes!”

That one was louder, and he glanced up from his notebook, wondering what was going on.

“What is it?” he called back.

No answer, and he tried again. “What is it, Watson?”

Silence was his only reply, and he frowned, looking toward the cottage. They frequently called to each other over the grounds, seeing no reason to walk between rooms or out to the meadow when yelling sufficed, but Watson never called only to fall silent when answered. Holmes put down the notebook and hurried across the silent meadow.

“Watson?” he asked as he came to the cottage, reaching out a hand to open the front door.

The unmistakable cocking of a revolver answered him, and he halted with his hand on the knob, remembering a conversation related to war long ago. Had something triggered memories of war? Just because he could not hear the fighting did not mean a lack of triggers. If Watson thought he was in battle, Holmes should not barge through the front door.

“Watson?” he asked through the door

Silence answered for a long moment, but before he could backtrack to the window he had left open on the other side of the cottage, Watson’s voice carried again from the front room, sounding as if he was struggling to force the words out.

“You said you _like_ them,” Watson ground out with an air of _and I have no idea why_ , “so get rid of this thing before I do!”

Holmes relaxed, opening the door as the words registered. There was only one thing that Watson could mean.

As the door opened, he spotted Watson first, standing near the armchairs and pointing the revolver at the kitchen. Following Watson’s aim, he poked his head around the door to see a grass snake exploring the kitchen, completely disregarding Watson’s presence and slowly working its way toward the sitting room.

A faint tremor entered Watson’s voice as Holmes hurried forward. “It came up through the hole in the floorboards.” The barrel twitched to indicate the corner of the kitchen. “Over there.”

The barrel did not lift its deadly aim on the snake until Holmes pinned the reptile by the head, and he was aware of the weapon landing on the end table as he carried the snake to the woods where it belonged. It was only the matter of a couple of minutes to safely deposit the grass snake in the woods behind the house, and he reentered the cottage to find Watson sitting heavily in his armchair and pointedly avoiding eye contact.

“Alright, Watson?”

His friend nodded, but made no further answer, and Holmes noticed the fists clenched on the arm rests.

“Thank you for not shooting it.”

A faint laugh escaped, and Watson finally glanced up. “You are lucky it was in the kitchen.”

Holmes smirked, pouring a couple of brandies from the decanter on the mantle. Watson had always despised snakes. The only time Holmes had ever seen Watson pull a gun in his bedroom had been in the first few years at Baker Street, when a snake had escaped a local handler and found their flat. Watson had shot it off the wall, firing over Holmes’ head. Snakes were not typically a problem in London, but when Watson had finally joined him in Sussex, Holmes had realized just how many snakes there were in the area. It had become his job to take care of the handful of snakes that had found their cottage, though there had been a few that Watson had found first, with a variety of results.

“Grass snakes are helpful,” he insisted, mostly to get a reaction. Watson was still much too tense. “They eat rodents.”

He had expected a comment about how cats could do that, but Watson only shivered, staying quiet as he sipped the brandy.

“You handled that one much better than the last time.”

Watson smirked without looking up from his glass. “I unexpectedly found the last one in the middle of the floor. I watched this one explore the hole in the floorboards before coming up. The warning made the difference.”

“We will get someone from town to patch that hole,” he promised.

“And check that no more live beneath the house.”

Holmes nodded. “And check that no more live beneath the house.” He paused for a moment, noticing how tense his friend still was, before he asked, “Join me outside?”

Watson hesitated. He had originally claimed he wanted a day inside, but his gaze strayed back to the kitchen as he suppressed a shiver. He nodded, following Holmes out to the meadow to settle with a book.

Trying to prevent a sleepless night, Holmes attempted to distract Watson with the bees, telling him all about the new queen he had found, but his tactic met with minimal success. Watson still refused to come near the hives, and there was only so much Holmes could do with Watson twenty feet away.


	19. Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some cases end better than others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #19:  
> Old Friends From The Yard: Have a long-suffering inspector (Lestrade, Gregson, Athelney Jones, original character) show up or even feature in your work today.

“What the blazes were you _thinking_?!”

Watson was sure his irritation was audible down the street, and the young Yarder in front of him somehow looked even smaller.

“I-I didn’t—”

“Correct. You _didn’t_ think! You do _not_ release your grip until the derbies are on and two others have him by the arms. If he had managed to escape or hurt someone tonight, it would have been _your_ fault!”

“Watson—”

Watson turned, his attention shifting in an instant from the hapless young constable to where Holmes stood beside him, and he scanned the detective in search of injury.

“I am fine, Watson. Calm down. You tackled him before he could do more than lunge, and his knife missed.”

Watson made no immediate answer, checking for himself that Holmes was unhurt. Tension rested in Holmes’ shoulders, but there was no immediate evidence of injury, and he hoped that was truly the case.

After a long moment, he growled at the constable, “Get out of my sight before I forget I am not your superior.”

The Yarder hurried off, and Holmes spoke again as Watson continued his scan. “I am fine. There is no need to set that bull pup of yours free.”

Watson huffed, finally accepting that Holmes was uninjured. “He will need to learn to think if he hopes to have a future with the force,” he muttered, staying close to a convenient lamppost.

Holmes barked a laugh, and Watson saw some of the tension relax as Holmes realized he was not truly irritated. “I would imagine he learned a piece of that today. I was talking to Lestrade when Hopkins asked if we wanted a show.”

Watson smirked. “He will probably get another piece when he gets back to the Yard. Lestrade was not happy, either, though he apparently decided to put off voicing his opinion until later.”

Holmes took Watson’s arm. “He probably decided an irate Army doctor would provide enough correction,” Holmes said as he led them down the street.

“Or he just knew that he would have another opportunity. I do hope we will not have to work with that constable again until he has learned to use that brain of his.”

Holmes made a faint noise of agreement but said nothing, and Watson let the silence stretch, more focused on not leaning on Holmes as they walked.

“Where are you injured?” Holmes’ question carried faintly through the darkness as they walked to where the other Yarders were gathered, and Watson nearly faltered. He had thought he had hidden the signs.

“What?” he asked, hoping he had heard wrong.

“You are holding your arm differently than usual, and you were leaning on the lamppost back there. You are also trying not to lean on me, though you are only partially succeeding. Where are you injured?”

Watson sighed. “I hit him with my left shoulder.” He paused, then quietly added, “and the knife did not miss completely.”

Holmes halted mid-stride, and Watson continued before Holmes could start searching for the knife wound. “I am fine. It is a small cut, and it has already stopped bleeding. It is just in an…inconvenient spot, and I can feel it every time I move.”

Holmes frowned at him but resumed walking, understanding that he did not wish to take care of it here. They joined Lestrade a moment later.

“I believe Holmes enjoyed the show more than your constable did,” Watson told the inspector with a smirk, not moving from his place beside Holmes.

Lestrade’s expression mixed amusement with irritation. “The discussion back at the Yard will not be pleasant. This is not the first time he has done that.”

Holmes frowned. “That does not sound like a lapse in thinking, then. If someone were to get hurt due to his actions, it would tear him apart.”

Watson turned to look at the detective, confusion filling his gaze even as Lestrade asked what Holmes meant, and Holmes continued, “Watson pointed out that if someone ever got hurt, it would be his fault for letting go too quickly, and if this has happened before, I cannot imagine Watson being the first one to tell him that. The way the young man flinched at the comment shows that he would hate for something like that to happen. Something besides ignorance or a lapse in thinking is making him release the suspect too quickly. Identify what that is, and you may be able to solve the problem.”

Watson’s shoulder twinged, and he swallowed a wince as Lestrade sighed, understanding crossing the inspector’s face. “Great. I hadn’t thought of that, but there was an incident a few months ago that might have something to do with it.”

Holmes opened his mouth to ask what had happened, but Watson purposely leaned harder on the arm he still held, and Holmes changed what he had been about to say.

“We should get going. I told Mrs. Hudson we would be back an hour ago, and Watson recently warned me that she may stop cooking if we wake her up again.”

Watson smirked as Lestrade’s laugh sounded, and they turned to walk down the street.

“I am alright, Holmes,” Watson said when they were far enough from Lestrade. “Stop staring at me as if you expect me to collapse. I just did not want to stand there talking.”

Holmes made no response, but his gaze did change from watching Watson to scanning the street.

“We do not need a cab. I can walk,” Watson continued when he realized why Holmes’ gaze kept darting down the empty street. “We are not far from home.”

“Forgive me if I do not believe you,” Holmes said, his tone nearly sharp in the darkness as he continued to look for a cab. “You despise letting me know you are injured, and your limp is growing more pronounced.”

“Of course, it is,” Watson replied calmly. “The cut is in an awkward spot, but it is not serious.”

“Define ‘serious.’”

Watson smirked. “Requiring a cab to get home.”

Holmes frowned at him, but Watson rather hoped they would not find a cab. It truly was not serious, and the bouncing of a cab would be quite a bit more painful than the awkward stride he employed as they walked along the sidewalk.

Holmes voiced another question a few minutes later. “Where is it?”

Watson suppressed a grimace born partly of pain and partly of embarrassment and made no reply.

“Watson?”

“In an awkward spot,” he repeated. “I’ll take care of it when we get home.”

Holmes squeezed his arm as they turned onto Baker Street. “Where is it?” he insisted.

Watson hesitated, but finally answered, “Right above my waistband, left side. He tried to trap the knife between us when I tackled him.”

Silence answered the admission, and he glanced up to see Holmes frowning deeply.

“I should have helped you with the constable instead of stopping you,” Holmes finally said before Watson could repeat that he was fine. “And,” he added, “you should not have tackled him. We both knew he had a knife.”

Watson used the cover of darkness to roll his eyes. “You should know better than to suggest that,” he said as Holmes unlocked the door. “I explained that to you many years ago.”

Holmes opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure where to go with that, and Watson smirked as he climbed the stairs. If Holmes denied the memory, he would open the way for a comment about seeing and observing, but acknowledging the memory would admit that he should have expected Watson to jump in front of him.

Holmes huffed in irritation, reading Watson’s thoughts on his face. “Stop that.”

Watson chuckled, abruptly stopping as it jarred the cut in his side. “Stop what? Backing you into a corner?”

Holmes’ gaze sharpened, dropping the banter as he noticed Watson smother the flinch. “What is it?”

“Awkward spot,” he repeated, waving off the question. “Grab my bag?”

Seating himself on the settee, he pulled up his jacket and shirt to reveal a long, shallow gash stretching from his hip halfway to his spine.

“That is not small,” Holmes said as he dropped Watson’s medical bag beside the settee.

“It felt smaller than it looks,” Watson admitted, cleaning the cut and anchoring a bandage over it. “Still not serious, though.”

Silence answered the assertion, and Watson glanced up from readjusting his shirt to find Holmes studying him.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” he repeated, yawning as he put the supplies away. “It just needed cleaning. Who knows what was on that filthy knife of his.”

“Take my room tonight.”

“I will do no such thing.” Watson closed the bag and pushed it aside, looking up to meet Holmes’ gaze. “You are just as tired as I am, after running yourself ragged on this case for the last week, and I will be perfectly fine in my own room. For all that it is long, the cut really is not that serious.”

Holmes frowned. “At least take the settee.”

Watson stared at him, noticing the worry and the tension in Holmes’ gaze. “What about this has you so tense? It is just a minor cut.”

Holmes hesitated, but answered. “You said the knife was dirty, and he enjoyed using poisons.”

Watson let his irritation show. “Of course, he did,” he muttered. “Fine. I will sleep on the settee. Try not to spend all night standing in the doorway.”

Surprise flickered across Holmes’ face at the comment, and Watson released a tired smirk when he realized Holmes had not known he had been awake some of those times.

There was no more conversation, however, and Holmes eventually went to his bedroom. Watson listened to be sure Holmes was going to bed before he settled on the settee, quickly falling asleep.

And when he woke in the middle of the night to find Holmes watching him from the doorway, a thrown pillow and a growled, “go to bed!” sent the detective ducking back to his own room. For the moment, anyway.


	20. Old Cases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the two animals, only one could be expected near the coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #20:  
> How To Train Your Cormorant: Watson and Holmes deal with a predatory seabird, or some other trained animal (cf. VEIL.)
> 
> How about a predatory seabird AND another trained animal?

“Walk with me?”

Holmes looked up from the notes he was organizing, eyeing me where I stood near the door of the cottage.

“Where?”

I shrugged. “Along the water. Across the field. I don’t care. I just want to get out of the cottage for a while.”

He eyed me for a moment longer before nodding. “Give me a minute.”

Settling his notes to keep his place, he stood and joined me at the door.

“Field or beach?” I asked as he locked the door behind us.

He pretended to think about that. “We walked along the water last time.”

“Through the fields it is,” I replied. “I don’t believe we have explored west of the cottage, yet.”

We walked in silence for several minutes, he lost in thought while I simply enjoyed the warm day.

“What notes are you reorganizing today?” I finally asked him.

“I am looking through the mid-nineties.” He paused, then continued with a faint grin, “Remember the abbey grange case?”

I nodded. “The lady whose lover killed her husband. You nearly wrote that one off before thinking it over on the train. That was shortly after the veiled lodger case.”

“The lion?” he asked thoughtfully. “That was a strange one, less a case and more a confession.”

“I wonder where she is today,” I said quietly, more musing aloud than expecting an answer. I hoped she had found a reason to continue living. I, for one, knew how hard that could be at times, and I would not wish that on anyone.

A call on the other side of the field cut off whatever he might have replied, and we looked over. A young man stood at the edge of the field, apparently feeding the seagull above him.

I chuckled, and Holmes struggled to smother a grin. The seagulls out here were vicious. There had been several times that we simply sat back and watched someone learn the hard way not to feed the gulls, and it would not be long before more gulls joined that first to attack the man instead of the food he was throwing.

We turned to continue through the field, wanting to get away before the flock descended, but a call carried over the field from behind us, and I glanced back.

The man was running toward us, yelling something, and I heard Holmes cry out as a seagull let out a loud squawk.

“Get back! Back!”

The seagull dove at Holmes again, and I stepped forward, swinging my stick to drive it away. Years of fighting with my heavy cane paid off, and the seagull fell to the ground, stunned, just as I felt a light touch on my trousers.

I reacted on instinct, shoving my hand into my pocket. I have no idea what I expected, but a ferret with my wallet in its teeth was not it, and I stared for a moment as the pieces fell into place.

The seagull still on the ground provided a distraction while the ferret stole whatever it could.

Holding the ferret by the tail, I used my other hand to reclaim my wallet as I caught Holmes’ eye. By the anger in his gaze, I knew we had come to the same conclusion.

“Are you alright?” The young man finally made it across the field, panting. “Terribly sorry about that, mates. I was feeding the birds when I realized Wyatt had run off.” He gestured to the ferret, clearing asking for me to hand the thief to him.

“I think not,” the anger in Holmes’ tone brought the man up short, “Robert Turner.”

The man—Turner—froze, paling, and Holmes used his stick to pin the recovering seagull in place before continuing. “I believe I warned you years ago that if I caught you stealing again, you would not enjoy the consequences.”

“M-M-Mr. Holmes,” he stuttered, clearly resisting taking a step back to be out of reach of Holmes’ cane.

Holmes scanned him from head to toe. “You trained Wyatt and the bird to team up against unsuspecting walkers. They would steal whatever they could, and with your target distracted by the bird, you could act apologetic while taking the ferret and the spoils. You are on a week’s vacation, staying in the one-bedroom cottage a mile and a half north of here, and you were originally planning to leave yesterday but rescheduled to three days from now.”

Holmes leaned over, his gaze firmly rooting Turner to the ground while he gently picked up the seagull. “I expect that tomorrow morning the local police station will solve the rash of thefts plaguing the area for the last week, or I will be forced to provide them with the answer. Am I clear?”

Turner swallowed audibly and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

“Good. Now get going. I do not want to see you out again tonight.”

“But—” His gaze flicked between the animals Holmes and I held securely but gently.

Holmes scanned him again. “You have no other animals. I will give them to someone who will not use them for crime, which is better than what the police will do.” His gaze softened the barest fraction. “I will not harm them. You know that, lad, just as you know that I will be able to find you if you do not turn yourself in.”

Turner nodded again, his eyes downcast, and he slowly walked back across the field.

“How do you know him?” I asked as he carefully wrangled the gull into a position that would not injure the bird nor allow it to escape.

His frown gained a touch of shame. “Rob was one of my failures,” he answered quietly. “He was one of the early Irregulars, but I had to kick him out because he refused to stop stealing from me. I set him up with a job with a local newspaper with a warning that if I ever caught him at it, I would turn him in, former Irregular or no. The last I heard, he had been fired for stealing ink and both blank and printed paper, but he must have left London shortly thereafter. I never found him, and I never heard of him again—until this week. Be wary of that ferret, Watson. It is likely trained to return to its master.”

I smirked, watching the creature walk over my shoulders as I shifted a bit of meat from hand to hand.

He looked up at the silence, and a smirk of his own appeared. “When have you had experience with ferrets?”

“I have not, but they are very similar to another animal. What do you mean you had not heard of him again until this week? Do you not mean until today?”

Holmes shook his head, leading me back toward the cottage as his amusement at the ferret mixed with shame at the memory. “I was going through your old case notes looking for any reference we had to trained animals. Rob had not started training animals when I knew him, but his father traveled with the circus, and every report had the seagull in common. I did not want to voice my theory until I was sure.”

I heard the apology beneath his words and responded quickly, “I understand, Holmes. Don’t worry about it.” Neither of us spoke for a long moment, but I finally asked, “What are we going to do with the bird?”

He glanced down at the faintly struggling gull held firmly in his hands. “Stackhurst mentioned a man a few stations north that takes care of birds. I will take it to him, but the gull has been trained to attack. There might not be anything the man can do.”

I nodded, knowing well just how much damage a seagull could do if it chose. “We could keep the ferret,” I told him.

His head snapped up, and I laughed at the surprise in his gaze. He smirked, relaxing as he realized I was not serious.

“I know of someone who might be able to give it a home,” I said before he could reply.

Confusion crossed his face. “Who would that be?”

“Remember the case I titled ‘The Adventure of the Crooked Man?’”

His confusion cleared. “Henry Wood?”

I nodded. “You know I have kept occasional contact with him over the years. A ferret is similar in many ways to a mongoose, and Teddy is long gone. He might appreciate the company, especially if we accompany Wyatt to Aldershot.”

He thought it over for barely a moment before agreeing, and we stopped at the cottage to find something to use as a carrier. Once assured that they would not easily escape, we took turns watching the animals while the other packed before heading to the station. I would have preferred the motorcar, but it was not yet drivable after our last misadventure.

While waiting for the train, Holmes produced a note from his pocket and handed it to a boy I recognized as one Holmes frequently employed to run messages.

“Are you free the rest of today?” he asked, and the boy nodded. “Good. Do you know the small cottage about two miles north of mine?”

“The red one that is always for rent?”

Holmes nodded sharply. “I need you to watch that house the rest of today. There is a man there, about the same age as your father, with dark hair and olive skin. If he leaves today, follow at a distance. If he goes anywhere but the police station, run this note to Inspector Bardle. You can leave when he turns in for the night.”

The boy shoved the note in his pocket with a nod, and he disappeared quickly as Holmes and I waited for the train.

“I doubt he will go anywhere,” I voiced after several moments of silence.

Holmes glanced at me. “You are probably correct, but I will not be here to watch.”

“And you hate the idea of having to track him almost as much as the fact that you had to fulfill your word,” I finished.

He nodded but made no answer, and I left him to his thoughts, checking to make sure both bird and ferret were secure in their makeshift carriers as the train rolled into the station. With a stop for the seagull, we should arrive in Aldershot in a few hours and have plenty of time to return today should Wood not want company.

I could not decide if I wanted Wood to keep the ferret or not. I would not admit it to Holmes yet, but if Wood did not want Wyatt, I rather liked the idea of a ferret running around the cottage.


	21. Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I do not care how cold it is; you are not leaving me behind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #21  
> Coat Porn: Whether it's BBC Sherlock's amazing Belstaff, Joan Watson's slickers, or classic Victorian overcoats, let outerwear be your inspiration for today's entry.
> 
> Indirect sequel to Chapter 16: Sleep

“You are _not_ leaving me behind!”

I stood, my hands clenched at my sides, blocking the sitting room door.

“There is a storm building,” he replied, trying to make it past me to reach the landing.

I snorted, how little I cared about such a thing evident in that one small sound as I again prevented him from leaving.

He stepped back, staring at me, and I took the opportunity to grab my overcoat as well as my hat and gloves from where I had left them the night before.

“Watson, you need to stay here. There is a snowstorm blowing in.” The wind grew louder, whistling over the roof to prove his point.

I scowled at him. “You grabbed your revolver, so you are going on a stakeout where you expect danger, and you despise telling Lestrade the entire plan, which means he will not be there to watch your back. I do not care how cold it is; you are not leaving me behind!”

Mary was out of town yet again, and I had been planning on a quiet evening in Baker Street until he had tried to leave, claiming research for a case even as I saw him slip the gun into his pocket. I had lunged to my feet, quickly stationing myself between him and the door.

“I will not be long, Watson, and it is too cold.”

He dodged my grasp and managed to get by me, and I followed, grabbing a scarf and my cane as I stepped into the biting wind.

“Stay here, Watson!”

“No.” The last time I had let him sit a cold stakeout without me, Lestrade had brought him back after midnight, delirious with fever. I would not let that happen again, no matter how sensitive I currently was to the cold. Better a cold vigil than a worried one.

“Watson!”

“I am glad you know my name, Holmes. You are still not leaving me behind.”

He harrumphed and waved down a cab, still trying to argue with me.

“It is too cold, Watson. Go back inside. I will not be more than a few hours.”

I buttoned my overcoat over my scarf to block the wind as I scowled at him again, climbing into the cab even as he tried to wave me away. “That is what you said last time. You are not leaving me behind, Holmes. Ever. You ought to know that by now, so tell me who we are tracking.”

He frowned at me, silent as I wrapped my overcoat tighter around my scarf and settled my hat low on my head. It _was_ cold out here, but I would not let him go alone any more than I would refuse a patient due to the weather.

“Holmes?” I prodded when he didn’t answer. “Who are we catching tonight?”

He sighed. “I would rather you stay home.”

“Well, I would rather it was still summer. We don’t always get what we wish. Why are we headed to the docks?”

We pulled in front of a warehouse on the heels of my question, and he got out, finally answering quietly.

“David ‘Davey’ Hill is a spice smuggler unafraid to add humans to his cargo. He prefers children, but he will kidnap anyone who comes down here alone at the wrong time.”

I stared at him, my anger growing as the cab drove away to leave us on an empty street. “Yet you were trying to come here alone!” He gestured for quiet, and I stepped closer, nearly hissing my words. “You tried to come here alone as bait! And, what? You think I would have just sat at Baker Street, forever waiting when you never came home from your _research?_ Holmes!”

He gestured for quiet again, and I nearly lit into him before he hissed a command to open my eyes and look around.

I scowled at him but glanced quickly down the dark, empty street. I looked again. The street was not so empty, after all. Shadows shifted in and out of doorways, slowly but steadily working their way closer, and I caught the faint gleam of a police hat as one moved too close to a streetlamp.

“Lestrade is in the closest doorway behind you,” he said just barely loud enough to hear, his angry posture completely opposite his quiet words as he pretended an argument for anyone who might be watching. “Hill is supposed to pass through in exactly ten minutes, and I need to appear alone. Find a place out of the cold, and do not follow me.”

He turned sharply away and strode up the street, leaving me staring after him, furious at him not only for setting himself as bait, but also for trying to leave me out of his plans.

_Do not follow me._ As if _that_ would ever happen.

The wind kicked up, whipping through my coat and sending a shiver down my back, and I tore my gaze from Holmes. Lestrade and several other officers were following my irritating friend at a distance, but I did not join them. A line of bushes along the street provided an idea, and I was not acting when my angry stride carried me off the street Holmes currently walked.

Once out of sight of the docks, I ducked to the left, using the bushes as cover as I followed Holmes much closer than the police dared. The plants were tall, ragged, and nearly overgrown, and I used my cane to hold branches out of my way nearly as much as I used it for balance. Within minutes, I had loosened my overcoat despite the wind as I worked up a sweat keeping up with Holmes’ angry stride, and I glanced back to see that the police were further away than they had been. The idiot was going to get himself hurt if he did not slow down.

Leaning over to scoop up a rock, I tossed it back through bushes I had already passed, making a stick crack in a sound very much like a footstep, and he paused, glancing back. I breathed a sigh of relief as the Yarders took the opportunity to move closer.

Seeing nothing, Holmes turned to continue walking as I glimpsed a shadow up ahead on the other side of the street, and I tensed, ready to jump in once Hill committed himself.

The shadow moved forward, multiplying into two, then three, then four, and I cursed under my breath as the fifth one appeared. The police had not closed enough of the gap to be sure of catching all five if they did not go after Holmes first, so unless I wanted to let one or more of them escape, I would not be able to help until Holmes was surrounded. He would be able to hold them off for a few minutes, I knew, but that did not mean I had to like it.

One man lunged with a roar while the others stayed in the shadows, clearly intending to startle Holmes into ducking so the tackle would throw him off balance. He did not expected Holmes to turn, taking the hit while keeping his feet, and his mulish face showed surprise in the faint lamplight when Holmes returned the favor, drilling the man in the stomach hard enough to make him bend double. The fight would have been over right then, if the other four had not rushed from the shadows when their leader went down. Before I could do more than stand upright, Holmes was surrounded, and the darkness combined with the open street to put him at a disadvantage.

Two faced him directly, preventing Holmes from reaching the leader, who was still bent double from the hit in the lower stomach, while a third circled around behind. Running footsteps sounded behind me as I lunged, but I ignored the Yard, focused more on tackling the fourth man, the one aiming a glistening knife directly at Holmes’ unprotected back.

The man never saw me coming, and I plowed into him, leveling him and sending his knife skittering over the cobblestones as I quickly regained my feet. A shoe scuffed behind me, and I turned, ducking beneath a punch aimed at my head while using my cane to trip the third man when he overextended.

The police finally reach us, Lestrade in the lead, and the fight disappeared beneath the crowd of officers as I made my way over to Holmes, my grip on my cane turning my knuckles white.

He looked up at my steps. “See, Watson—”

I cut him off. “You blooming _idiot!_ ” Wariness appeared in his gaze, and he barely prevented himself from stepping back as I stepped closer to prevent my words carrying to the Yarders not ten feet behind me. “The presence of the police makes no difference if you _leave them behind_ before you spring the trap! And since when are you a match for five _alone_?! That was a royally _stupid_ thing to do!”

“I am fine, Watson,” he told me instead of returning my anger as I had half-expected him to do. “Calm down. All went according to plan.”

“So you _planned_ for five men to jump you with your backup too far away to help? You _planned_ for them to kidnap you? Or did you _plan_ for them to kill you?!”

Surprise flickered in his gaze, and I released a laugh more angry than amused. “You never even saw the knife, did you? If Mary had not been out of town tonight, I would have read your name in the paper in the morning.”

I gestured to where one of the constables was in the process of wrapping the long knife from where it rested on the cobblestones, and Holmes glanced at it, then back up at me. Some of my anger faded at the uncertainty in his gaze. If nothing else, this would at least make him reconsider leaving his backup behind, though I hoped it would stop him from leaving _me_ behind. Mary never minded when I went off to help Holmes, and I did not have to limit our visits to when my wife was visiting relatives outside of London. Depending on the case, there were times Mary had even helped in my stead, as she had when Holmes had needed her to act the part of an engaged servant so he could gain access to a blackmailer’s safe.

We had been telling him for years that my marriage need not interfere with my ability to assist in his cases, yet he continued refusing to let me help. This was not the first time he had tried to keep me out of a dangerous case in recent months.

“Why is it,” I asked him quietly, my anger draining, “that you can remember all the symptoms and possible effects of exposure well enough to try to keep me inside, but you cannot remember the reason I was on the pier with you in the first place?”

He glanced back at where the knife had been, and I turned away, walking towards the group of Yarders at a pace slow enough not only to allow Holmes to easily catch up to me when he stopped staring at the cobblestones, but also to hide the price I was paying for that tackle. In my urgency to reach Holmes before the knife, I had fallen into the tackle I had used in my school days—one which had my left shoulder hit first, and the ache radiating through that old injury throbbed a harmony with my leg, increasing in tempo as the temperature decreased with the building storm.

Footsteps sounded behind me, and Holmes slowed his pace to match my own. I pretended to ignore him, stifling a shiver as I fought to wrap my overcoat around me now that I was no longer moving so quickly.

“Stubborn,” he muttered, trying to take my left arm in his as I settled my coat.

I barely managed to turn my gasp at the pain in my shoulder into a chuckle at his comment. “Pot. Kettle,” I replied, only slightly breathless from the spasm shooting through my shoulder.

He smirked, but we reached Lestrade before he could form the question I knew was coming.

“Doctor Watson!” Lestrade greeted me when we joined him next to the police wagon. “I did not expect you to be here tonight.”

“Someone has to keep him out of trouble,” I replied with a faint smirk, letting my arm fall from Holmes’ grip to stop my shoulder’s protesting, “and I happened to be available. I am guessing the man that attacked first is David Hill?”

“The human trafficker,” Lestrade confirmed with a faint shiver, glancing over as one of the sergeants closed the wagon door and locked it. “The others were somewhat unexpected, but all’s well that ends well. We have enough evidence on Hill for him to be a long walk from a short rope, though we might not have enough on the others for them to get more than a handful of years. Appreciated your help, gentlemen.”

He nodded and quickly walked away, and I smothered a grin despite my confusion as I glanced at Holmes. It was strange for Lestrade to leave so quickly, but I wrote it off to the late hour. “I did not know Lestrade enjoyed Shakespeare.”

Holmes was frantically glancing around, and my grin faded as he waved his hand in a gesture to keep talking. Frowning in confusion, I complied, “Though I guess it is not surprising, as he caught that ‘As You Like It’ quote I used a few weeks ago. We were talking about acting, and he mentioned that you would have done well as an actor. He seemed highly amused when I pointed out that the entire world was your stage.”

He scowled at me as his gaze locked on a point over my left shoulder, and I caught him surreptitiously point towards it as he took my arm in his again, leading me down the street as if we were headed home.

“’All that world’s a stage,’ is it?” he replied, pretending irritation.

“Of course,” I said quickly when he paused for too long in his search up and down the street. “How many nights this week have you roamed the streets in some strange costume? Don’t think I failed to notice that new feather hat in your room.”

He smirked, most of his focus on our surroundings even as he donned the voice and some of the mannerisms of one of his wealthy landowner personas. “Feather hats _are_ the current fashion, you know. My wife simply _loves_ them.”

I laughed, unable to smother my surprise at such a comment coming from the man next to me. How he was able to slip in and out of his characters I had never understood, but most of his aliases provided an endless amount of entertainment for me as I watched him behave and speak in a manner completely foreign to the friend I had known for nearly ten years.

His grip on my arm tensed before I could reply, and I heard the scuff of a shoe behind us. Before I could turn, pain shot through my shoulder as Holmes shoved me forward.

A man lunged out of the alley, landing where I had been standing, and I quickly staggered to my feet, ignoring how my leg protested the sudden movement. Holmes traded blows with the man that had tried to ambush us, and my cane came down hard on the other man’s shoulder. Holmes used the opportunity to pin the man to the ground as Lestrade hurried up behind us.

“Late as usual, Lestrade,” Holmes said with a smirk.

The inspector rolled his eyes. “Says the one whose cab arrived nearly twenty minutes after he said it would.”

“Ask Watson why that was,” Holmes grunted, wrestling a pair of cuffs onto the man fighting to get off the ground.

Three constables took over from Holmes as Lestrade glanced at me, and I chuckled. “He tried to come without me. I blocked the door until I had a chance to grab my coat.” Lestrade’s smirk turned into a laugh as I continued, “Is that all of them, now?”

Lestrade nodded. “We thought they might keep one back, to bail the others out, but I had to think of something quickly when I noticed him following you.”

“That was not a pre-arranged signal?”

“It was not,” Holmes confirmed, nodding a well done at Lestrade that he would never say.

I said it for him before exchanging pleasantries. I would have liked to catch up with Lestrade—I had not seen him in several weeks—but Holmes had already turned away, and I hurried to catch up as Lestrade climbed to the bench on the front of the wagon.

“Would it kill you to admit it for once?” I asked when he stopped for a moment to let me draw even with him.

The clip clop of the horse-drawn police wagon faded behind us as he matched my pace, but he ignored my question with one of his own. “Are you limping due to injury?”

“Yes,” I said facetiously. “A bullet found my leg years ago, and it dislikes dropping temperatures. I thought I told you that already.”

He rolled his eyes at my tone, again taking my left arm in his—probably to let me lean on him—and pain shot through the scar.

He froze as he felt me tense, my arm half in his. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I answered, deciding I must have bruised it.

I was finding it difficult to differentiate between the effects of the cold and the results of the tackle, but nothing felt broken. There was nothing seriously wrong, and I hated acknowledging my old injuries, acknowledging that it took only a drop of a few degrees to nearly cripple me. It was worse this year than I remembered it being last winter, and I wondered if that had anything to do with the heightened sensitivity to cold that I had displayed a month before.

Releasing my arm, he waved down a cab as he scowled at me again.

“You know,” I mused as we climbed into the cab, “I heard someone warn their child the other day that he should stop making such expressions, otherwise his face might get stuck like that.” I glanced up at him, smirking when he rolled his eyes at me as he signaled the cabbie to drive. “Yes, that one, too.”

“I would not make them if you would answer the question.”

“I did answer the question. You simply did not appreciate the answer.”

“Watson.”

“Holmes.”

He stared at me, and I smirked. “We have established we know the other’s name, though I thought we did that over an hour ago. Are we going to go any further?”

“Yes,” he answered. “You are going to tell me why you are limping so badly as well as why I should not have tried to take your left arm.”

“How about because it is a windy twenty degrees and dropping outside, and there is a snowstorm blowing in?”

“You were not limping that badly when we left the flat, nor were you limping when you followed me up the street. I would have heard you.”

My smirk widened. “By which you mean that you did not hear me following you at all.”

He did not have to speak for me to know I was right, and I laughed. “You cannot really think I would have followed that order?”

“No, I suppose not.”

I answered the question he refused to ask, unable to kill my grin. “I was in the bushes, teaching the plants new words when I saw you leaving Lestrade behind.”

Apology appeared in his gaze, and I let it go as the cab drew to a halt, knowing he had not realized he was walking too quickly.

I dug for my key as he paid the driver, grateful that Mrs. Hudson had refused to take it back when I had married. The wind was only getting stronger, and I was beginning to shiver despite the many layers I wore. A seat before the fire sounded wonderful, as did the possibility of a hot drink. I felt his gaze on me as I limped up the stairs, but he did not speak until we reached the sitting room.

“Are you going to answer my question?” he asked.

“Only if you answer mine.”

Confusion crossed his face for only a moment before he remembered the questions I had asked, and he busied himself with his pipe. I smirked and settled in my chair. Eventually, we resumed the conversation that had halted when he tried to leave without me.


	22. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowledge is not always exchanged through books...or while seated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #22:  
> Miss Bechdel, I Presume?: See if you can create a Watson's Woes work that passes the Bechdel-Wallace Test (have two named women talk to each other about something other than a man). This will be easy-peasy for any all-female version of Sherlock Holmes, of course.

“Block. Slash. Thrust.” She ducked the knife flashing through the air. “You are getting better.”

Her opponent blew a piece of hair out of her eyes as she blocked the knife aiming for her side. “You think so?”

She chuckled. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, dearie. I hope you never have to use this, but I am glad you will be able to, at need.”

Her opponent lunged, and only the clash of steel on steel filled the room for a long moment. “That is why I asked for lessons,” was the eventual reply. “I enjoy the cases, but I will not always be able to work with someone else. I want to be able to take care of myself, and it is easier to carry a knife than a gun.” She paused as a thrust came close to scoring. “Who taught you how to use a knife, Martha?”

Martha chuckled again, dodging a strike. “Your husband.”

 _“John?_ ”

“Of course, right after they started working cases together. It started after someone broke in and tried to hold me hostage.”

It was Mary’s turn to chuckle. “I imagine they learned the error of their ways?”

A wry grin appeared on Martha’s face as she circled, looking for an opening to continue their spar. “Maybe, maybe not, but they _did_ leave with a nasty concussion from a tea tray.”

Mary’s chuckle turned into a full laugh, and she barely blocked the strike Martha timed to her distraction.

“How did you explain that to the police?”

Pure mischief appeared in Martha’s grin as she held Mary’s attack at a standstill. “He fell.”

Another laugh filled the room as Mary broke off the stalled attack and tried another. “Only after the tray impacted his head!”

“Naturally.”

“And how many times did you have to repeat the story?”

“None, actually. I was conveniently out of the flat when statements were taken.”

Mary laughed again, easily blocking the attack and returning one of her own. “Of course, you were. I should have remembered how well you melt into the background.”

“How else would I know when I’m needed without interrupting?”

Mary’s grin widened, but she made no answer, focused on their spar, and a minute later, Martha saw her open one of the more recent lessons, one that was supposed to end with Mary’s blade at Martha’s throat. Martha reversed it, and the spar halted with Mary pinned.

“How did you do that?” Mary asked as she stood upright.

Sheathing her knife, Martha poured them each a glass of water before answering. “I caught your blade against my hilt and twisted, thrusting your blade to the side and opening a gap in your guard for me to pin your arms.” She demonstrated slowly, and Mary nodded as she grasped the concept.

“Teach that one to me next time?”

Martha nodded around her glass, and Mary spoke again, “Thank you for the lessons.”

“No problem at all, especially if you teach me to shoot as you offered.”

“Of course, I will. We just have to find a place to do it.”

“Prop a block of wood behind a target on that wall,” Martha said easily, gesturing to a back room. “No one is ever upstairs when you are here, and the neighbors will never suspect me.”

Mary’s laugh rang out. “Just complain to you!”

Martha shrugged, smirking. “They complain anyway. I may as well give them a reason.”

“Alright, then,” Mary replied, still laughing. “Find a large block of wood and a target, and I will return in a few minutes with a weapon we can use.”

“Check the sitting room, first.”

Mary waved an acknowledgement and walked up the stairs, still chuckling, and Martha opened the kitchen door, stepping out into the alley behind the flat. A large block of wood sat exactly where she remembered seeing it, and she brought that and piece of wrapping paper inside. By the time Mary returned with a familiar pistol and a handful of bullets, she had drawn a simple bulls-eye target and affixed it to the block of wood already fastened to the wall.

“Is there any chance of the bullet going through the wall if you miss the target?” Mary asked as she eyed the set-up.

Martha shook her head. “The wood is just to prevent holes in my plaster.”

Mary chuckled. “You mean more holes?”

Martha could not smother a chuckle of her own. “How about holes outside of the upstairs sitting room?”

“At this point, that is probably all you can hope for,” Mary replied with a grin.

“Unfortunately.” Martha heaved a put-upon sigh.

“Oh, admit it, you wouldn’t trade a moment of it for the world.”

She smiled, observing how Mary held the weapon then trying to copy it, but she made no answer. She did not have to.

Conversation turned to the new lesson, and they focused on helping Martha hit the target more than she missed.


	23. Violins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five days was pushing it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #23:  
> The Very Worst Tenant in London: Watson copes with his flatmate, and possibly Mrs. Hudson as well.
> 
> This indirectly references some of Watson’s history I established in Alone and A Gift of Music, but you do not have to have read those to enjoy this one

Morning came much too early. I dragged myself out of bed, pulling myself upright to start another day when all I wanted to do was go back to sleep.

Or, rather, go _to_ sleep.

Holmes had not slept in days, and when Holmes was unable to sleep, nobody else could either. The scratching of Holmes’ violin continued from the sitting room below as I forced myself to get ready, and I rubbed the grit from my eyes as I stumbled through my toilette, wishing I could simply go back to bed.

I occasionally went without sleep due to patients or Holmes’ cases, but that was rarely more than a day or two at a time. _Five_ days was pushing it, and I could not even enjoy the music. I always enjoyed listening to Holmes play, but he was not playing. He was scratching, using the instrument to busy his hands while he thought through a case. I would rather him pace and think aloud than spend another hour screeching on the violin—I would be able to tune out the words eventually—but I could no more tune out the noise of him dragging the bow across the strings than I could ignore a concert, no matter than only one was a joy to listen to.

Love of music or no, when Holmes used his instrument to busy his hands, no one in the flat or the neighboring flats got any sleep.

Holmes ignored me as I walked through the sitting room toward the breakfast table, his violin silent for the moment as he scribbled something on a scrap of paper. He finished writing and rushed down the stairs as Mrs. Hudson entered with the breakfast tray, and she looked no better than I felt.

“Perhaps you should go spend a day or two with your sister,” I said as she slowly emptied the tray onto the table.

She shook her head. “She’s up north, showing her kids the town where we grew up, but even if I went that would do nothing for you.”

I shrugged. “Do not worry about that. Is there somewhere else you can stay for a day or two? This is the longest he has gone since I met him, and _he_ at least shows no signs of flagging yet. It could be days before he finishes this case, and I doubt he will try to sleep before that. Our only breaks will be when he leaves or if he makes the mistake of sitting in one place long enough to fall asleep mid-thought.”

She hesitated, considering my words. She had gotten just as little sleep as I had over the last week, but she was not accustomed to staying up even a day or two straight, and the lack of rest was affecting her greatly.

“I will think on it,” she told me before making her way back downstairs.

I turned my attention to the food in front of me, nearly too tired to eat. I much preferred to go upstairs and back to bed, but I had promised to cover another doctor’s practice today. I ate what I could before taking my coat and hat and starting my day.

* * *

“Be sure to change that bandage each evening, and come back if it shows any signs of infection,” I said as I ushered the last patient out the door.

“Thank you, Doctor.” The door closed before she could start another torrent of words, and I nearly leaned against the door frame as I sighed, grateful the day was over.

Now if only I could be sure of getting some sleep.

I took a cab home, unwilling to walk that far when I was so tired, and I glanced up at the window as I unlocked the door, hoping the sitting room would be dark, empty. I hoped he was getting close to finishing his case, and if he spent an evening laying a trap, the flat would be silent for a few hours.

The windows were lit, however, and I could hear him pacing as I took off my coat in the entry. I resigned myself to another long night.

“Doctor!”

Mrs. Hudson’s furtive whisper caught my attention, and I glanced over to see her waving me into the kitchen.

“What is it?” I asked as I hurried closer, wondering if she was hurt.

“Look what someone left in the alley.”

She led me further into the kitchen, pointing at an object sitting on the table.

“What is—” My question cut off as I moved closer, and she chuckled faintly.

“Looks just like it, doesn’t it?”

An almost perfect twin to the violin on which Holmes was still scratching sat on the small kitchen table, nearly snapped in half, and a grin split my face as I understood how we could use this.

“Exactly like it. Can you get Holmes out of the room for a few minutes right after supper?”

“Of course, but how will you switch them?”

I opened the medical bag I still carried, glad I had decided not to restock my supplies until the next day. “He rarely opens my bag, and as long as it fits…” I let the sentence trail off as I picked up the broken violin and gently set it in my bag. It fit easily, and I hoped Holmes’ unbroken one would fit as well. “I should be able to switch the two as long as you can get him out of the room long enough,” I finished with a smile. She grinned, as pleased with our subterfuge as with the idea of getting some sleep tonight, but I continued before she could reply. “This will only work for one night,” I warned.

She shrugged. “It is better than nothing, and maybe if he lets himself sleep in the absence of his instrument, he will solve the case that has been plaguing him. Then we can go back to sleeping at night, and the neighbors won’t complain to me during the day.”

I grinned. “This is better than any idea I had. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

She threw a towel at me, and I ducked, chuckling as I beat a hasty retreat. “One of these days, I will get you to call me Martha!” she declared to my retreating back.

I climbed the stairs, still chuckling as she called something about supper being ready soon. I found her irritation at the title much too amusing to stop, and she knew it, though I doubted she would ever stop trying. We had been going back and forth with this since shortly after I moved in, and, anymore, calling her “Mrs. Hudson” was more out of mischief than any sense of propriety, at least behind closed doors.

I was still grinning when I entered the sitting room. As he had this morning, Holmes ignored me as I set my bag by my desk and settled into my chair, and I watched him pace in front of the fireplace, scratching occasionally on the violin in his hand.

“Have you solved it, yet?” I asked after several minutes.

“It makes no sense!” he growled, never slowing his steps though the violin silenced its noise for the moment. “I am missing something. It is highly improbable that Willis had an accomplice, but how else could he have broken into that house?”

Mrs. Hudson entered with the supper tray before he could continue fuming, and we shared a smirk behind Holmes’ back.

“Eat something, Holmes. Perhaps after a meal and a rest, the answer will become clear.”

He scowled at me, but he did eat a little before he retrieved his violin and resumed scratching. The noise filled the flat, and I winced but said nothing when he hit two notes better left far apart. It would not have made the next half hour any different.

“Mr. Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice interrupted his noisemaking, and I swallowed the last bit of raspberry tart as I saw her in the doorway. “There’s a boy downstairs. Says he has a message for you but won’t come up.”

He bolted for the door, dumping his violin on the table as he passed, and I wondered if he was actually expecting a message. I was too busy lunging to catch his violin to worry about it for long, however. He had set the instrument too close to the edge, and his violin nearly gained the appearance of the one Mrs. Hudson had found. I barely caught it before it hit the floor.

Voices rose downstairs, and I hurried across the room. It took only a moment to switch it with the broken one in my bag, and I limped back to the table as my leg protested the rapid pace.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs as I came around the settee, and I tried to cut the corner too quickly in my haste. I had intended to leave the broken one on the floor near where he had left his violin, but my bad leg caught the edge of the settee. I lost my balance, and Holmes hurried through the door to find me picking myself off the floor three feet away from where a violin lay broken beneath the table.

“Watson!” He strode across the room, and I used the table to pull myself to my feet, already forming the apology I had rehearsed.

“Sorry, Holmes,” I told him, using the excuse of regaining my balance to avoid eye contact. I could not lie for anything, and he knew that. “I tried to catch it, but I tripped.”

His focus had been on me, but he looked at where I gestured. Disappointment flickered over his face as he spotted the broken instrument.

“It was too close to the edge,” I said, easing down into a chair.

He gently picked up the violin, inspecting where the neck had disconnected from the body and the strings that had broken in the process.

“Do not worry about it,” he muttered. “I should not have left it on the edge of the table.”

“I know a luthier down the street. I can take it to him in the morning,” I offered. I was relatively certain that the violin he held was beyond repair, but as long as he did not look inside the body, he would never know that.

He hesitated but agreed, knowing no luthier would still be open this late in the evening, and he set the violin on the table—well away from the edge—before going to his room.

I frowned. I had not expected him to take the incident that badly, but he came back out barely a moment later, carrying a pipe he had left in there the day before. With a disappointed glance at the violin on the table, he resumed his pacing in front of the fire, clouds of smoke billowing from his pipe.

I rose from the chair, hiding a grimace as my leg protested the very real tumble I had taken, as Mrs. Hudson entered to take the supper dishes.

“He came back upstairs rather fast,” I commented after helping her fill the tray. We stood on the landing to make it harder for Holmes to eavesdrop. “Was there really a messenger?”

She affected a shrug with a mischievous glance at the closed sitting room door. “The boy must have run off before we could make it downstairs,” she answered. I smirked, but she continued before I could wish her goodnight. “What was that crash?”

My smirk changed to a grimace. “Holmes left his violin too close to the edge of the table. I tripped while trying to catch it.” A smirk crossed her face before she realized my story was only half-fabricated, and I hurried to reassure her. “I am fine, but I told him I would take the instrument to get fixed in the morning. They are closed by now, and I was planning to go to bed early tonight.”

“I could send someone with it.”

The footsteps froze in the sitting room, and I nearly laughed at the confirmation that he was listening. “No, no. He would hate that. I’ll take it myself after I get up. The owner knows me, anyway.”

Footsteps resumed as she smothered a chuckle. “As you wish,” she managed to say normally. We exchanged goodnights, and I ducked her swat when I used her title again.

Silence reigned in the sitting room as I lay on the bed, and I breathed a sigh of relief, falling asleep immediately.

* * *

It was well after nine when I finally woke, and I lay there a moment before getting up, enjoying the feeling of a full night’s sleep for the first time in a week.

It was too bad such a trick would only work once. He would recognize the broken violin if I tried to pull the same thing again, but it had served its purpose for the moment. I descended the stairs ready to either pretend to take the broken one to the shop or, if he had caught onto the trick in the night, face his irritation.

I did not have to do either, however. I was halfway down the stairs when an “Aha!” sounded from the sitting room, and he raced down the stairs and out the door. I glanced out the window to see him hurrying toward the Yard.

Good, I thought. I would be able to take my time before taking both his and the broken violin with me down to the luthier.

I lingered over breakfast, noticing that Mrs. Hudson appeared as refreshed as I felt, and lingered over a paper. I had nowhere to be this morning, and I had at least an hour before Holmes would return. It was a gorgeous day outside, and some thirty minutes after Holmes had rushed out, I slipped a novel into my bag next to the violins on my way out the door.

I did go to the luthier, as I had told Holmes I would, but only because I knew he would be able to tell if I did not. I did little more than walk by the shop on the way to the park, where I spent the next several hours reading on a bench. No matter how much I wished otherwise, I knew better than to think the luthier would be able to save the instrument Mrs. Hudson had found. There was a long crack going through the body, visible only from the inside, and the cost to repair the instrument would be more than the violin was worth.

Not that it would do me any good to repair it, I thought with a frown, flexing my bad shoulder.

I put the thought out of my mind, absorbing myself in my book as the hours sped by. I did not look up until the clock tower tolled one. Clouds were beginning to roll over the city, and I tucked my book in my bag as I turned my steps towards home.

Holmes’ attention snapped away from his pipe as I entered the sitting room.

“You are back early,” he said as he stood from his armchair, setting his pipe aside.

“I had no patients today,” I told him, “and the break was an easy fix. Here.”

I had left the broken violin with Mrs. Hudson, so he only saw the one violin resting in my nearly empty medical bag. I handed it to him, and he took it gently, removing it from the case to inspect it thoroughly as I refilled my bag from the supplies I had left in my desk. Finished, I set my bag in its place and moved to inspect the luncheon Mrs. Hudson had laid out.

“How did he fix the long scratch down the side?” Holmes asked as I filled a plate.

I kept my back to him. “I did not ask.”

There was a pause. “How much was it?”

“I called in a favor. Don’t worry about it.”

I glanced over my shoulder in time to see a frown cross his face, followed closely by suspicion, and he stared at me for a long moment even after I started eating. I could not in good conscience charge him for a violin that had not broken, but he would not have expected me to pay the luthier unless I had broken it instead of failing to save it. Good luthiers were expensive.

“You should not have paid for it,” he insisted, shuffling to pull out his wallet.

All I could do was shrug. “I already told you; I called in a favor. Put your wallet away. I don’t want your money.”

He stopped, wallet in hand as he stared at me, and I turned back to the plate of food in front of me.

“Watson?”

“Hmm?” I asked around a mouthful.

“If I go to the shop down the street, is the owner going to say he saw you today?”

I sighed. So much for hiding it from him. “Depends on which one you ask,” I answered. “What does it matter, Holmes? Your violin is fixed, and faster than you expected. Be careful where you set it. I doubt I could call in another favor should it drop again.”

Suspicion remained in his gaze, but he dropped the topic, returning his attention to the violin in his hand.

“You were not pacing when I came in,” I noted a few minutes later. “Did you solve the case?”

He frowned. “I fell asleep in the chair before I could finish thinking it through last night, but I realized what I was missing this morning. Gregson should have Willis in custody by now.”

I chuckled. “So, a meal and a rest _did_ help.”

He harrumphed but could not deny my words, and I turned back to my food with a faint grin.

Maybe tonight would be as quiet as last night.


	24. Exploration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Watson suggested exploring the area, he did not mean on foot...in a storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #24:  
> The Wonder of the Age: For Victorian Holmes & Watson it was things like telephones and motorcars; for current Sherlocks and John/Joan it’s more likely to be nanotechnology and/or iPhones; 22nd Century Holmes deals with androids and casual Moon travel. (For Sherlock Hound or Basil of Baker Street it’s probably flea powder.) Use or allude to such a modern miracle of the age for whatever age you choose.
> 
> The motorcar incident referenced in JWP #20: Old Cases

“See the deer?” Watson pointed to the edge of the road, and the small animal bounded away as they passed.

Watson had suggested exploring the area after Holmes spent the morning complaining of boredom. An afternoon slowly driving side roads had been a pleasant diversion, and they had spent the time taking whatever roads looked interesting, occasionally pointing out wildlife or good views.

“I have seen several of those this year,” Holmes commented. “More than last year.”

“Didn’t you also say it was a long summer?” Holmes nodded. “That is probably why.”

Watson turned a corner, and Holmes recognized the area.

“Turn here.” He pointed at a narrow lane going into a patch of trees, and Watson slowly fit the motorcar onto the unkept road.

“What is down here?”

Holmes waved off the question, glancing at the sun’s position. “It depends on if we time it correctly. We may be too late. Slow down around this corner. The road ends.”

The motorcar slowed to a crawl, and the dust of their movement settled as they came around the corner. The ground dropped away, tree covered hills rolling into the distance, and sunlight glinted off multicolored leaves to create a stunning view.

They stopped moving, and Holmes glanced over to see his friend staring, foot firmly on the brake as he looked up and down the valley at the patchwork of colors.

“I thought you might like that,” Holmes said with a smug grin, leaning back in the seat and trying to hide his own staring. Watson was not the only one that enjoyed this view, though it had been a rare thing for Holmes to come this far from the cottage without Watson’s motorcar. They had driven in nearly a large circle, and the overlook was little more than a few hours’ walk from the cottage, for all that they had been driving for most of the afternoon, but that did not mean Holmes would walk that far simply for a stunning view.

“How have you not spent hours here?” Watson asked, still looking at the natural quilt of color.

Holmes shrugged. “I did not have a motorcar. Stackhurst let me borrow a cart for two days shortly after I moved, and I used it to explore the area, but I have only been here a few times since.”

Watson finally tore his gaze away from the view and slowly turned the vehicle around, glancing back a few times as he did so. “We shall have to remember this place next spring. The wildflowers will be nearly as colorful as the leaves.”

A smile flickered across Holmes’ face, but he glanced at the sky again before saying, “We should probably turn back. The sun will be setting soon, and the temperature will drop.”

Watson nodded, and he turned toward the main road that would take them back to the cottage. “Shall we—”

“Look out!”

Holmes’ warning cut off whatever Watson had been about to ask, and Watson jerked the wheel, swerving to avoid the deer that had bounded directly in front of the motorcar.

They went off the road, bouncing several feet into the field and clipping the deer on their way past. A tree brought them to an abrupt halt, and smoke rose from beneath the hood.

Silence filled the car for a long moment.

“Are you injured?” two voices asked in unison.

Watson chuckled. “I’m fine,” he answered. “The ‘car, however…”

He trailed off, opening the door and getting out to inspect where the smoke was rising from the engine.

“What is wrong with it?” Holmes asked, getting out to stand near the front wheel.

Watson ignored him, finding the source of the smoke before limping back to the driver’s seat. He turned the key off, then back on, and tried to start the engine. Nothing happened, and he tried again with the same results.

“Watson?”

“I don’t know, yet, Holmes. Give me a minute.”

He limped back in front of the wheels and knelt, looking under the radiator, and Holmes heard a quiet choice word.

“The tree dented the radiator and gave me an oil leak,” Watson grunted, nearly laying on the ground next to a forming puddle to look at the damage.

Holmes was silent for a moment. “What does the radiator do?”

A faint chuckle carried from where Watson knelt, and he pulled himself from under the vehicle and used his cane to regain his feet. “It cools the engine. We will have to walk home. I can ask someone in town to get it in the morning.”

Holmes frowned, glancing between the Watson’s limp and the sun sinking on the horizon. “Is there no chance of fixing it?”

Watson shook his head as he pulled their jackets from the backseat. “Radiators are complicated, and oil is simply messy. I have neither the parts nor the tools to do anything, even at the cottage, and for it not to start means something else is broken as well—probably one of the wires in the starter. Here.”

Watson tossed a jacket, and Holmes caught it, scowling at Watson’s attempt to hit him in the face. His frown returned after a moment as they walked down the road, however. “Stackhurst is closer than the cottage,” he said, matching his pace to Watson’s.

“He is out of town today,” was the reply.

Holmes’ frown deepened, but he made no answer.

“How far is it?” Watson asked a while later, after they had turned onto the main road. The words came out slightly breathless.

“We traveled in a large circle instead of straight out,” Holmes answered. “It would have taken about thirty minutes to drive home.”

Holmes caught the grimace Watson tried to hide. A thirty-minute drive was several hours’ walk at their current pace, and Watson had been limping all day after a front had moved in the previous night.

“I remember seeing another cottage on that last side road where we turned around,” Holmes continued.

“It was empty. Several newspapers sat on the front step.”

Holmes frowned. He hadn’t noticed that, but Watson continued before he could reply. “I’m fine, Holmes. We just have to walk slowly.”

“You are limping.”

A touch of frustration entered Watson’s voice. “There is a storm building, and the temperature is dropping. Of course, I’m limping.”

Holmes dropped the topic but took Watson’s arm, hoping to prevent a tumble on the uneven dirt and gravel, and darkness fell before either of them spoke again.

“Was there not supposed to be a full moon tonight? It is darker than I expected.”

Holmes glanced up, quickly noting the absence of stars. “It is behind the clouds.”

He barely heard Watson’s huff of irritation. “Of course, it is.”

Holmes looked over, studying his friend in the near darkness. Watson’s limp had only gotten worse with the walk, and he was holding his shoulder awkwardly against Holmes’. He was also nearly breathless, despite their slow pace, telling Holmes that the doctor’s old injuries were spasming.

There was little he could do about it, however, unless they wanted to go back to the motorcar and try again in the morning. They had been walking for well over an hour, and while turning back might have been a viable option twenty years ago, they could hardly do that now.

The breeze strengthened, blowing leaves and dust through the air, and Watson’s grip on Holmes’ arm tightened briefly.

“Watson?”

“Overbalanced,” Watson said shortly, his focus on the ground in front of him. “Sorry.”

Holmes scanned the area for lights. The cloud cover made it more difficult to walk, but houses would shine like a beacon in the darkness. With how badly Watson was limping, Holmes knew better than to think they could walk back to the cottage without leaving Watson confined to his bed by morning—no matter how vehemently Watson insisted that he was alright. They needed to find a house.

An engine sounded behind them, and Holmes stopped his scan as they took several steps off the edge of the road to wait for it to pass. The roads were dark, narrow, and lined with trees, and the driver would not be able to see them until nearly on them, otherwise Holmes would have tried to wave the other person down.

As it came around the corner, the motorcar’s headlights illuminated a rock just in time for Holmes to avoid tripping on it, and he sidestepped, steadying Watson when the doctor’s cane slipped on the grass. They moved back onto the road as the headlights continued away.

The lights halted fifty feet up the road, however, then slowly backed up to where they stood, and they paused, watching the motorcar warily. Few enough people out here had a motorcar, and Holmes knew from driving Watson’s motorcar that the vehicles were not easy to reverse during the day, much less after dark.

“Mr. Holmes?” a voice carried as the automobile stopped several feet away.

 _“Stackhurst?”_ Watson’s exclamation cut off Holmes’ greeting, and he leaned over slightly, using Holmes to maintain his balance as he peered into the dark automobile. “When did you get a motorcar?”

The other man grinned at Watson’s surprise, and the duo slowly walked closer to the window. “About three hours ago,” Stackhurst replied. “I borrowed it for the week from a friend. What are you doing out here?”

“Oil leak and a dented radiator,” Holmes answered, sounding as if he had always known what a radiator was, and he saw Watson smother a grin. “We were planning on pushing it to town in the morning.”

“Hop in.” Stackhurst gestured to the backseat. “I can drop you at your cottage before heading home.”

Watson barely hesitated before nodding, and Holmes frowned even as he helped his friend inside. He had expected more of a protest.

“Thank you,” Watson voiced a few minutes after they pulled away. “Neither of us were looking forward to such a long walk.”

“Especially in this weather!” Stackhurst agreed, running the wipers as the first scattered raindrops hit the windshield. “No problem at all. How did you dent the radiator?”

“I swerved to avoid a deer and hit a tree instead,” Watson answered, moving restlessly on the motorcar’s hard seat. “It put a dent in the wrong place to drive home, but it should be simple to fix with the right tools. Is there a mechanic in town?”

“Yes,” Holmes and Stackhurst answered together. Holmes waved an apology, and Stackhurst continued, “Frank got one of the first motorcars in this area, and he learned how to fix them before anyone else even had one.”

Watson nodded. “Good. Tomorrow,” he shifted on the seat, “or the next day, do you know anyone who might help me get it to town? Something in the starter broke as well, and it refused to turn over. I would have to put it in high gear and take the spark plugs out, but we should be able to tow it if there is a team of horses available.”

Stackhurst made no reply for a moment, searching for the road. “I know someone,” he finally answered as the headlights illuminated the cottage. “I can ask him tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

The words sounded more like a sigh, and Holmes leaned forward with a frown, trying to study his friend in the dark motorcar.

They came to a stop in front of the cottage before Holmes could do more than lean forward, however. “I will let you know what I find out,” Stackhurst told them, silently studying Watson, who had opened the door and was struggling to stand from the low seat.

Holmes hurried around the car, nodding his thanks for the ride as he took Watson’s arm.

Stackhurst drove away, and Watson tried to let go of Holmes.

“I’m fine,” Watson protested. “I can use my stick.”

Holmes merely tightened his grip, forcing Watson to lean on him instead of the cane. “You have a strange definition of ‘fine.’”

Watson breathed a laugh, trying not to lean against Holmes’ arm. “I learned it from you.”

“You did no such thing.”

“Really? Then who was it that insisted he was ‘perfectly fine’ just before passing out from blood loss?”

Holmes hid his expression in the door as he stoically answered, “Lestrade.”

That startled a full laugh as Watson limped into the cottage. “That is not how I remember it.”

“It is how I remember it.”

Watson huffed, leaning against the wall as he took his jacket off. “You remember wrongly, then. _Lestrade_ , at least, never tried to sit a stakeout with a raging fever, something _you_ did more than once.”

“I think you have it backwards.” Holmes barely managed to cover his smirk.

Watson shook his head, trying and failing to smother the grin twitching the corners of his mouth as he turned toward the fireplace, but any reply he would have made was cut off when he stumbled. Holmes lunged, steadying the doctor before he could fall.

“Sorry,” Watson muttered, gripping Holmes’ arm to stay upright as they moved toward the hearth. “It’s just…” He trailed off, gesturing to the door to indicate both the storm and the long walk.

“I understand,” he voiced once Watson was settled into his armchair. He did; his friend had been limping that morning, which was why they had gone for a drive instead of a walk, and they had walked for over an hour before Stackhurst happened by. The storm currently washing Sussex would have aggravated the doctor’s old injuries even without the physical activity. “What can I do?”

Watson shook his head. “Nothing. It’ll pass.”

Holmes frowned. Watson would never accept pain medicine, but Holmes had no idea what else might help. He could not halt the storm, nor could he undo the effects of an hour of walking.

Watson was not interested in a late supper, so Holmes made a pot of tea before picking up his violin. If he could not help, he could at least distract.


	25. Fuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I could see he did not believe me, but he refrained from rolling his eyes at the warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #25:  
> Food, Glorious Food: Have food (or its absence) figure in some way today.

“Holmes, when was the last time you ate?”

He never looked up from his pacing, lost in thought and ignoring the question as he stared at a piece of paper in his hand, and I tried again.

“Holmes, you need to eat.”

He halted midstride, reading something from the paper before rushing across the room.

“Holmes!”

“No time, Watson. I need to see Lestrade. He arrested the wrong man!”

He was out the door before I could argue, and I turned back to the supper in front of me with a sigh.

Holmes had been on this most recent case for days, and he had not asked for my assistance. I knew very little of the details, and I was too busy with my own schedule to pay more than the barest attention to his without a reason, but while I had been in and out with my patients nearly as much as he with his case, I was almost always here for meals. I had not seen him eat in two days, three if I disregarded the bite he had stolen from my plate the first time I tried to get him to eat. He needed food, yet he seemed to think that logical brain of his could rationalize his body out of needing fuel. It would catch up with him soon.

“Doctor?”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice came from the doorway as I finished, and I looked up.

“He refused to eat again,” I answered her unspoken question.

“He is going to make himself ill,” she fretted as she cleaned up the untouched food.

“That is probably the only thing that would make him slow down. How many Irregulars has he had in and out of here today? Five? Ten?”

“Fifteen knocks on the door,” she answered, “mostly Wiggins, but a few others as well. They said they were helping him track three different men across the city.”

I shook my head. I would have to try to keep an eye on them too. It had been a lean year for the poorer sections of the city, and those boys—and girl—would never complain.

“Offer some of this to them as payment,” I suggested.

She nodded, catching my meaning immediately. “They don’t eat enough,” she agreed, lifting the tray. “I’m sure they will appreciate this spread.”

“I certainly did.” I got the door for her, voicing a “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” as she walked out. She scowled at me, and I chuckled. That would never get old.

I moved slowly around the room, cleaning, clearing the floor, and picking up the many books Holmes had left scattered everywhere. I chose a book from the shelf when I finished and settled into my chair, losing myself in its pages.

Commotion below me drew my attention from the story, and I looked up as the door slammed and footsteps bounded up the stairs.

“I am guessing Lestrade listened to you?” I asked with a faint smile as he threw open the door.

“Of course, he did—" he scowled, “once I explained my reasoning. Lestrade is the best of a bad lot, but _he_ at least listens.”

I chuckled at the muttered, “unlike Gregson,” but said nothing as he exchanged his jacket for his dressing gown and moved to his chemistry set. Focused on whatever experiment he started, he ignored my attempts at conversation, and I returned to my book.

Or, rather, I _tried_ to return to my book. A crash sounded downstairs, and Mrs. Hudson’s voice carried to the sitting room.

“Doctor!”

I was out of my chair in a moment, racing for the door at the urgency in that call and grabbing my bag on the way.

“What happened?” I asked as I hurried into the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson knelt on the floor, holding one of our youngest Irregulars, Jacob, and she looked up at my voice.

“He was telling me about the work Mr. Holmes has them doing when he stopped and paled, then collapsed.”

Jacob roused as I awkwardly knelt, and I quickly put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from rising.

“Easy, Jacob. Stay there.” I took his pulse, checking him over as he colored at the realization that he was on the floor. “What happened?”

“Sorry, Doctor. I just got fuzzy-headed. I’m alright.”

Something about that sounded familiar, and I caught his gaze. “When was the last time you ate?”

He frowned, breaking eye contact to stare at the floor as he mumbled an answer.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know when you last ate?”

He shook his head, slowly sitting upright as Mrs. Hudson leaned back. “My sister needs it more,” he said. “We don’t have much, and I promised Mum I would take care of her.”

“Yet, you have been rushing back and forth helping Mr. Holmes all day,” Mrs. Hudson admonished, standing to prepare a plate from the supper remains.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve gone longer before.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, setting the plate on the table as he cautiously pulled himself to his feet. “You eat that, and I’ll put together some more for you to take back for your sister and a few others. And you!” She shook her finger at the doorway, where I noticed Holmes had appeared. “You haven’t been setting the best example yourself, running back and forth to the Yard with barely a meal in a week! If you want them to help you, you need to give them time and access to food. Not everyone can force themselves to go without food or sleep for a week straight.”

He leaned against the doorway, trying to brush off Mrs. Hudson’s irritation as he eyed where Jacob was sitting at the table, silently checking that the boy was alright. Something about the way he was standing caught my attention, and I moved closer.

“Holmes?” He tore his gaze from Jacob to look at me, and I gestured to the other chair. “Sit before you pass out, too,” I told him with a smirk.

He frowned at me, irritated that I had noticed, but he pushed himself off the wall and slowly made his way to the table, where Mrs. Hudson put another plate of food in front of him.

“One of these days, Holmes,” I warned him as I watched Jacob quickly clearing his plate, “you are going to faint at the wrong time. I hope all I will be able to say is ‘I told you so.’ You need to eat, no matter how interesting a case.”

I could see he did not believe me, but a quick glance at Jacob prevented him from rolling his eyes at the warning. He picked up a fork and began clearing his own plate as I shared a knowing smirk with Mrs. Hudson. For all that he claimed the children were simply useful eyes and ears on the streets, his presence in the kitchen showed he cared about them. Maybe that would serve to make sure he took care of himself, if only to show them what to do.


	26. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes was far too protective of his index

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #26:  
> Good Old Index: Holmes' index is full of suggestive entries, including but not limited to Victor Lynch, the forger, a venomous lizard or gila, and Vittoria, the circus belle. Take one as a starting point, or make up your own!

“Watson!”

I looked up at the frustrated call, dropping a fever reducer in its place in my bag as I saw him frantically looking through his shelf.

“What is it, Holmes?”

“The C book is not where it is supposed to be. Did you move it?”

“You tossed it in one of your desk drawers after the Carmichael case last week.”

He nearly pounced on his desk, rifling through the many papers and books he stored there before an “Aha” carried from where he knelt. He flipped through the pages hurriedly, nearly tearing some of them in his haste.

“What are you trying to find?” I asked as I leaned against my desk, watching to see which pages he scanned and wondering if he was about to find what I had done. It was barely after ten, and he had been pacing in front of the fireplace all morning, thinking and muttering about I knew not what. I had thought he was between cases—he rarely pulled a prank such as the one in my wardrobe the day before when a case was keeping him busy—but he also usually ignored his index unless needed for some case.

“Something Ms. Carmichael said does not match what I know of her family history,” he answered distractedly, flipping slowly between pages as he sought the case notes.

I smothered a grin and moved across the room, preferring to be out of easy throwing distance when he found the right pages. His index was going to read slightly different than how he remembered.

The sound of pages turning halted, and he read for a moment, then flipped back one page, then forward, reading the notes in a handwriting very like his own.

“Did you find it?” I asked when the silence stretched too long.

“Carmagnole, Carmelite, carminative…” he muttered, running his finger down the list of entries. He paused, then read through them again. “Watson?” His voice was low, nearly a growl, and I hid a smirk.

“Hmm?” I answered, as if paying more attention to the bookshelf I was facing.

“Why does my index match the dictionary?”

I pretended confusion, desperately trying not to laugh at the irritation in his voice. “Is that not what an index is? A dictionary?”

“Watson.”

That _was_ a growl, and my smirk grew. “What? Do you not like the update?”

He did not answer, and I glanced up at him to see him staring at me, irritation beginning to overtake the amusement in his gaze.

“Holmes?” I had expected a small amount of irritation, but not the amount in the glare he was leveling at me.

I ducked a cushion from the settee and looked back up to see him still glaring at me.

“Calm down,” I started, matching my tone to my words.

 _“Calm down?”_ he growled. “That was _years_ of research!”

Oh. That explained his irritation.

“And it still is,” I replied. He opened his mouth to continue, and I cut him off. “Look at the book, Holmes.”

He frowned at me, but did as I said, examining the book inside and out and gently turning the pages he had been reading.

It took him a moment—I had done my best to conceal it—but he finally noticed the double corner on one page.

“The man you hid in my wardrobe yesterday suggested it,” I told him with a smirk. He had arranged my clothes to look like a man taking a smoke break in my wardrobe, complete with a pipe and a book, and the dictionary he had tucked in the jacket pocket had provided the idea for a return prank.

His irritation faded as he gently peeled back the extra layer, and his frown nearly turned into a smirk as he glanced up at me just in time to avoid taking a pillow to the face.

“I know better than to damage your index, Holmes,” I admonished. “You would throw more than a pillow at me if I did.”

He tossed the pillow the settee next to him and nodded a silent apology, amusement returning as he studied the extra page he held in his hand.

“If I ever need to copy someone’s handwriting,” he finally told me, “I know who to ask.”

I smirked, deciding not to tell him that I had so many examples it was harder _not_ to. I had copied from different portions of the book he held, sometimes finding entire words that I carefully mimicked. The page had taken little more than an hour to write the night before, after he had gone to bed thinking I was inventorying my medical bag.

Silence fell again, and I returned to my desk and he to the index, though I did notice he began checking the corners of nearly every page as he scanned his notes.

My smirk remained, but I said nothing. He would find the other page I had altered eventually.


	27. Wrinkles and Metaphors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people are not limited to one moment in time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #27:  
> Scan the Shelves For Ten Seconds: You have 10 seconds. Look over your collection of other books, movies, TV-show compilations, etc. (Or sweep through your electronic library at top speed.) You have 10 seconds to pick one item. Now add something from that work into your offering – a setting, a plot-point, one of the characters. ("Watson, this dead man is marked with a mockingjay.")

The silence seemed to fill the cottage.

I wandered from room to room, more searching for something to do than out of any real interest in exploring the small cottage. Holmes had already settled in, I noticed. His pipe, collection of books, and other possessions were already in their places here that matched where they had stayed for years back in London. It was strange seeing his stuff spread about the room without any of mine.

I had decided I was not yet ready to retire, and I had opened my practice on Queen Anne Street the same week Holmes had finished moving, but that would not prevent me from coming to visit. I had managed a long weekend, and I had three days before my practice required that I return to London.

Holmes was out, probably running an errand in town and not yet aware that I had arrived, and I moved slowly into the kitchen, deciding to note what he had and make a list of anything we might need over the next few days. If he had not returned when I finished, I could walk back to town and get it myself.

Before I could start opening cabinets, however, a note in the middle of the counter caught my attention, and I picked it up.

“Went to the store. Back shortly.”

I chuckled, setting it aside. That ruled out that idea. Of course, he would go himself to avoid me going for him.

I moved back to the sitting room, looking for something to do, but there was nothing. This was his house, not mine, no matter that I doubted he would care I had let myself in.

I ended up outside, wandering slowly through the grounds I knew so well. Here was the meadow, where Holmes had said he was going to put beehives…and where Mary and I had enjoyed so many picnics. Here was the stream where I had told Holmes my plans to stay in London—and where Mary and I had spent hours talking, laughing, enjoying the bubbling water.

Two layers of memories filled this place, one much stronger than the other, and glimpses of the past rushed forward. I had prepared for this to happen, and I let them take over, skipping lightly through time as Mary came alive around me.

The stream was shallow and clear, and she had wondered aloud once if there were fish in it. A baited hook produced no bites, but we saw many crayfish crawling along the bottom. I had told her the crayfish were edible, if she wanted to try to catch them, but she had waved me off, laughingly claiming there was no reason to eat such a strange creature.

The tall trees had captivated her, and I had found her sitting in the branches more than once. Each time, she had regaled me with stories from her childhood, both in India and after she returned to England.

The meadow would be covered in a carpet of wildflowers soon; Mary had so enjoyed the daisies, picking many of them to make a chain as she voiced stories of picnics on the rare days she could escape the boarding school. Occasionally, she had told me, she could even get one or two of her agemates to leave with her. They always got in trouble, but she rarely cared. The matrons never knew half of what they did out there anyway, she had laughed. India was where she had learned to shoot, but the meadows and forests around her boarding school were where she had honed her skill using a revolver her father had given her for her thirteenth birthday. On the days she went alone, she used the time to practice the skills her father had taught her in India.

I wandered further from the cottage, seeing years long gone much clearer than anything in the present, as if time had wrinkled, catapulting me through the years.

Playing together in the meadows, dodging through the trees, laughing by the stream. I felt as if she might be right behind me, if I could only turn around fast enough.

I kept walking.

Watching sunsets by the water, catching her reading a book on a low tree branch, bickering about whether we wanted to watch the sunrise enough to get out of bed, listening to the waves crash on the shore.

I eventually found myself at that small cottage. It appeared empty, and I allowed myself to stare, remembering.

Quiet talks stretching long into the night as we planned our future. Suppers with more playful banter than eating. Simple time spent hoping, healing, enjoying the other’s presence.

A hope and healing that had abruptly ended only a few months later. How I missed her, even after all these years.

“Watson?”

I started minutely at Holmes’ voice behind me, sighing as the memories faded back into the past, as the wrinkle in time straightened.

“Hello, Holmes.” With one last glance at the small cottage, I turned to face him, my smile of greeting fading when I saw how he was studying me. “Holmes?”

He glanced between me and the small, red cottage behind me, and I raised an eyebrow, wondering what he was thinking, but he said nothing.

“Did you find what you needed at the store?” I finally asked.

“Are you—?” he asked, still glancing between me and the cottage.

“I’m fine.” I smiled faintly, remembering the metaphor I had used earlier. “I just found a wrinkle in time.”

He frowned. “A wrinkle in time?” he repeated, staring at me with a touch of worry.

My smile grew, partly to reassure him, partly at the chance to teach him something, and I put the memories behind me, ready and waiting to revisit another time, and focused my attention on the present, on the handful of days I would spend with my dearest friend before I returned to London and the patients I had left behind.

“Have you not heard that metaphor?” I walked toward him, leading the way back to the cottage as he fell in step beside me. “It is a concept based on a theoretical version of time travel using Charles Hinton’s exploration of a fourth dimension…”


	28. Basic Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It may belong to Holmes, but Watson knows how to use it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #28:  
> An Interesting Dialogue: Take inspiration today from the following lines: "I can explain!" "Is that so? Well, you are the writer amongst us, so I look forward to your tale Watson."

He needed to hurry. Holmes would return any minute, and he doubted his friend would be happy to see what had occurred in his absence.

He mixed the compounds over the burner, stirring slowly to keep the mixture from overheating again. This was his second attempt; he would not have time for a third.

The pharmacy had been short on two of the medicines he needed to treat Ms. Benson’s illness, so he had hurried home with what he needed to make it himself. Already, his clumsiness had broken one of Holmes’ vials and cracked a beaker, and he could ill afford to break another. He needed to finish this, clean up the mess, and hurry back to his patient before Holmes arrived. He would stop at the shop before he returned to replace the pieces he had broken.

The door below opened, then closed, and he cursed under his breath. The compound still needed another minute over the flame, then another minute to cool. So much for offering apology and replacements at the same time.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, slowly climbing halfway before pausing, then nearly running the second half. “Watson! What is—?”

The words cut off as the door swung open, and he finally took the compound off the burner and poured it into the container he had ready, pretending to ignore the consulting detective behind him as he fought not to spill.

“Watson.”

Holmes’ voice was nearly a growl, and Watson smothered a cringe but made no answer.

“ _Watson_.”

The anger in that tone was apparent, and he hurried to forestall the argument. "I can explain!"

"Is that so?” was Holmes’ answering near-growl. “Well, you are the writer between us, so I look forward to your tale, Watson."

He did not answer immediately, focused on not spilling the results of two hours’ work.

“The pharmacy was out of what I need to treat Ms. Benson,” he finally replied just before Holmes lost his patience. “There was no time for me to hunt through every pharmacy in the city, so Agar agreed to sit with her while I compounded what we needed.”

Silence answered him, and he glanced up from quickly cleaning up his mess to see Holmes staring at him, anger still in that steely grey gaze.

“I’m sorry, Holmes,” he said quietly, turning back to the last couple of items on the table. “You know I would not use your chemistry set if I had any other choice. The experiment you had going is sitting there, in the window with the same amount of sun it had before you left. All I did was move it from the table so I would not knock it over.”

Setting the cleaned glassware aside, he tore two pieces of paper from the back of his journal and wrote the items he would need to replace on each, leaving one on the table as an acknowledgement for Holmes to find. Avoiding eye contact, he shoved his copy in his pocket, grabbed the medicine that would save his patient’s life, and hurried past Holmes and out the door.

He had no time to think about it the rest of the day, nor all night, more focused on treating the illness that was making it so hard for Ms. Benson to breathe. It had been years since he had tried to make anything more difficult than a fever reducer, and he spent most of the time praying it would work. If he had gotten one thing wrong, the medicine would do nothing at best and kill her at worst, but she slowly rallied, and by the time dawn lightened the eastern sky, he was able to tell her worried family that she was out of danger. She woke a few hours later, and he left her in the care of a large family overjoyed to have her back and generously grateful to the doctor who had saved her.

He walked slowly home. This had not been his first sleepless night this week, and he was exhausted. He stopped only to replace what he had broken—and buy a couple extra things he was sure Holmes did not have—before turning his steps towards the flat, interested in little besides setting the chemistry supplies on Holmes’ table and going to bed. Ms. Benson would recover, and he no longer needed to sit vigil.

His elation at her survival faded behind his worry on the slow walk home. Holmes hated when anyone touched his chemistry set, and there had been several rows when Mrs. Hudson or one of the servants had tried to clean that area in the months after they had first taken lodgings together. Holmes had every right to be furious with him, but while Watson regretted breaking a couple of things, he was replacing them, and he could not apologize for doing what was needed to save his patient. According to Agar, she had stopped breathing twice in the few hours he had been away. There would not have been time to hunt through other pharmacies that may or may not have carried what he needed, nor could he have gone to St. Bart’s to use the laboratory there. He had no other choice but to use the only chemistry set he had available, no matter that he fully expected an argument the next time he saw Holmes. He hoped he could sleep before that, however. He would gladly put off the inevitable argument for when he was more awake.

He entered the flat quietly, hoping to reach the sitting room and his bedroom with no one the wiser. Mrs. Hudson never stopped moving around in her rooms as the door shut with a faint click, and, if he was fortunate, Holmes would not be home to start the argument he knew was coming.

His luck had apparently run out, however. Holmes spun around from pacing in front of the fireplace when the door opened, and he tensed, bracing himself for the argument to come as he walked slowly into the room, gently placing the chemistry supplies on the table and his bag on his desk. Holmes’ gaze followed every step.

The gaze was unnerving, but he would take that over an argument—especially after several sleepless nights—and a heavy silence fell as he carefully restocked his bag. The silence stretched, and he started to wonder if Holmes would let him leave the sitting room without a word.

Placing his restocked bag in its spot, he was moving toward the door when Holmes finally spoke. “Your patient?”

He sighed, relieved. Holmes did not like that he had borrowed the chemistry set, but he at least was no longer angry.

“Alive,” he replied.

Holmes nodded and started rooting through the bag of supplies, and Watson continued to his room, hoping Holmes did not start a loud or obnoxious experiment until at least mid-afternoon.


	29. Irregular Alleys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson has plans for today...and he would much rather Holmes not know about them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #29:  
> To the Makeup Table! Focus on Holmes and/or Watson in disguise – for a case, or for any other reason.

“Watson?”

“Holmes?”

“Why are you wearing that?”

I glanced down. I wore a ragged overcoat over an equally ragged workhouse suit that served to draw attention from the slightly too-new shoes I was wearing.

I shrugged. “I guess you could call it a disguise,” I finally answered.

He stared at me for a moment. “Why?”

I huffed a laugh, continuing to organize my medical bag to make sure I had everything I might need. “Because my normal outfit would put a target on my back today.”

“Where are you going?” The question was quiet, almost worried, and I glanced over to find him scanning me, searching for any clue he could find as to my plans.

“You mean you cannot guess?” I said with a smirk.

He frowned at me. “You are going to a poorer end of town, but I have no idea _why_ you would do so, nor to which poorer section you would go.”

A knock sounded on the door, and I picked up my bag. “I am sure you will figure it out. I hope to return in a few hours.”

Leaving him staring after me, I hurried down the stairs and out the door. The front step was empty, as I had known it would be, and I hurried down a block, then turned right. A shape appeared from the shadows, meeting me at the other side of the alley.

“What took you so long?”

“Sorry, Charlie. Holmes was trying to figure it out.”

The young Irregular skipped along beside me. “Why don’t you want him to know where you’re going?” she asked. “He knows where it is.”

We turned off one street and ducked through another alley. “That is why. After that case last spring, he dislikes me going to the East End alone.” I could not exactly blame him—we both still had nightmares from that case—but that did not mean I had to like how persistent he could be on the matter. It was simpler to let him figure out where I had _been_ rather than where I was _going_.

“But you’re not alone. You’re with us!”

I smiled, following the young girl through yet another alley as our surroundings got more and more decrepit. “He would not see it that way.”

She waved the comment off in a manner so like her older brother I nearly laughed. Charlie Wiggins was a rowdy eleven years old, and she and her brother had been Irregulars since she was eight or nine, if not longer. Holmes had never told me when he started the Irregulars, but I knew the Wiggins’ were two of the first. Her brother was basically raising her, and after so much time on the streets, she acted more like her brother than she did their long-dead parents.

We rounded a corner and halted, scanning our surroundings as we came to a more dangerous section of the city, but she waved me forward a moment later. Ducking into the next alley, I slowed my steps as high walls blocked out the morning light. I was here to treat a patient, not become one.

Charlie waved me forward, trying to hurry me.

“I do not know this alley as you do,” I told her, watching my path carefully to ensure I did not trip on something in the half-light.

Her gaze flicked to the stick on which I occasionally leaned instead of merely carrying, and she slowed, trying to take my hand. Moving my stick to the hand that held my bag, I let her, and she led me down one dark alley and up another before finally stopping in front of a rotting pile of wood. With a glance up and down the alley, she pushed aside two boards, revealing a door, and led me into a courtyard.

I was aware of only fifteen or twenty Irregulars, but the courtyard seemed to have many more people than that. Children were everywhere, chasing each other in a game of tag, talking around a small table, and surrounding a figure huddled into the blankets in a makeshift bunk. It was to this last area that I directed my steps.

“It happened yesterday,” Charlie told me as we moved closer. “He was climbing and hunting down by the docks when he fell. The fever started last night.”

The crowd moved away, and fever-bright eyes peered at me from under a blanket as I set down my bag. “Hello, James,” I said softly.

“Doctor,” he greeted quietly. He started to move but winced.

“Stay there, James,” I told him. “It’s alright. I need to have a look at your leg.”

I gently moved the blankets aside, keeping a running commentary with the occasional question as I examined where a piece of metal had cut a long gash in the boy’s leg. The cut was relatively shallow, for all that it was nearly three inches long, but the skin around it was bright red. The scab leaked yellow as I examined it, and I frowned as Wiggins came up behind me.

“I am going to have to lance it,” I answered Wiggins’ quiet question. “The wound is infected, and that is what is causing his fever.”

He glanced between James and me for a moment. “’Lance it?’” he repeated.

“I have to reopen the wound to clean it,” I answered. “The metal had something on it that is making him sick.”

“What can I do?”

I chuckled as brother and sister frowned at each other, irritated at having spoken at the same time.

“Hold him down. Charlie, do your best to distract him. He is not going to like this.”

Charlie started talking, blocking James’ view and chattering about a litter of kittens she had found a few alleys over while her brother held him still, and I carefully lanced and cleaned the wound. It only took a couple of minutes, but James’ movements showed how painful it must have been.

“Done,” I finally told them, and James breathed a sigh of relief. “You did well. You remember how to change bandages and clean a wound?” Wiggins nodded at me. “Good. Just keep that clean, and I will leave you some extra bandages. The fever should subside in a few hours, and he will be up and running in a few days.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Wiggins said as we moved away from James to let him rest. “What do I owe you?”

I shook my head. “I already settled fees with your sister.”

He glanced around, clearly searching for where his sister had gone, and movement near the table caught his eye. Charlie stood talking to one of the small groups, and they slowly got up and walked closer.

“Hello,” I told them gently as Wiggins looked on.

A young boy peeked out from behind his older brother. “Charlie says you’re a doctor.”

That had been more question than statement, and I nodded, smiling at the young lad.

“I am Doctor Watson” I answered, speaking to them all but directing my words at the one who had spoken first. “I came to help James, and I would like to check everyone else while I am here.”

The older children hung back, wary, but the youngest one moved forward. “What’s that mean?”

I opened my bag to let the boy see into it, taking out my stethoscope. “Someone does not have to be sick to go to the doctor. Many people come to me just for a check-up, to make sure nothing is wrong.”

The boy frowned, thinking about that. “Does it hurt?”

I chuckled. “No, lad. Can I give you a check-up?”

He hesitated for only a moment, glancing at Wiggins, before nodding, and he followed me a few steps away from the others. I kept a running commentary, explaining what I was doing and why I was listening to his heart and lungs, and I finished a few minutes later.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I told him. “Will you send another over on your way back to the group?”

He nodded and ran off, and a moment later an older girl walked toward me. In this manner several hours passed, giving check-ups, treating injuries, advising the older ones on how to care for the younger ones. I was just finishing when a familiar voice came from the other side of the courtyard.

“Wiggins!”

“Sir?” The young man looked up from where he had been talking with one of the other boys, standing to move to where a certain consulting detective waited near the entrance, and I turned back to the boy in front of me.

“Take it easy for a day or two,” I told him, wrapping a brace around his swollen ankle, “and it will heal soon enough. If it still hurts in a week, let me know.”

The boy smiled at me and hurried off, jogging in an awkward limp that was most certainly _not_ taking it easy, and I shook my head with a grin and turned back to my bag. Rummaging through my supplies, I took a quick inventory while waiting for Holmes to leave. There was no reason to announce to him that I had spent all day in the Irregular’s headquarters, and I would get Charlie to lead me back to an area I knew better after Holmes had gone.

Pieces of his conversation carried across the courtyard, probably related to his current case. He had not included me on this case, and I tried not to listen, but I could not avoid hearing some of it.

“In an alley…cane…lost...trail…watch…not far from here.”

I put the last few supplies in their places, noting which ones I would have to replenish, and Wiggins’ voice carried, too quiet to make out the words besides a call for Charlie, then a faint question.

She skipped over to me a moment later. “My brother wants to know if you have your watch.”

“Of course, I—” The pocket I patted felt empty, and I shoved my hand into it only to find a hole in the bottom. “I do not, apparently,” I answered, looking over at her. “Did he say why he needed a watch?”

“Mr. Holmes followed us,” she answered. “He found your watch in an alley, and he’s trying to get my brother to help search for you.”

I released a half-irritated chuckle. “Of course, he followed us. The stubborn...” I trailed off, closing my medical bag and grabbing my stick from where I had leaned it against a wall. “We shall go calm down a detective then,” I told her. “Perhaps you can give him pointers on tracking people through alleys, since he obviously did not track us here.”

A faint giggle sounded from beside me, and I left the alcove I had claimed for the evaluations to find my friend pacing in front of an amused Wiggins.

“Do you have it?” he asked me.

I timed my answer for when Holmes was pacing away from me. “No.” Holmes froze, and I smothered a grin as I continued. “I apparently have a hole in my pocket.”

My friend spun to face me, utter surprise crossing his face for the briefest moment before it disappeared, and I smirked. “You lose the trail in an alley only to find me on accident? I thought you could find anyone in London.”

He shrugged. “I found you, did I not?”

I chuckled. “No, you asked the Irregulars to find me. They just happened to know where I was.”

He rolled his eyes at me, and I turned to Wiggins, who quickly killed a grin. “Let me know if James’ fever does not recede by morning, and try to keep young John off that ankle for a couple of days.”

He nodded, showing us to the door. “Thank you, Doctor. Am I still to meet you at Baker Street tonight, Mr. Holmes?”

My friend nodded. “At seven.”

Wiggins closed the door behind us as I followed Holmes out, and I held out my hand.

My pocket watch landed in my palm, and I slipped it into a different pocket as I glanced at him.

“Why did you follow me?”

“You said you would be back hours ago,” he scowled. “Of course, I followed you.”

I shrugged. “I said I hoped to be back in a few hours, not that I would be. Besides, you have a case. I would have thought that would be more interesting than following me through several dark alleys.”

He glanced at me. “You took that route on purpose?”

“No, Charlie chose that route. She wanted to make sure we did not lead anyone to their headquarters.”

He frowned, possibly remembering the incident Charlie had alluded to. “Why would you not answer me this morning?”

“Because the last time I tried treat a patient in the East End, you insisted on coming with me and made a nuisance of yourself in the process. Not all of those children know you, and it was hard enough getting some of them to trust me.”

He stared at the sidewalk in front of us, his frown remaining, and I let him think, leaning on my cane as we walked.

“You need a better disguise,” he finally said.

I smothered a chuckle, seeing through the comment to his dislike of my being in this section of town. “I am not exactly trying to sneak into a warehouse unrecognized.”

“You still need a better disguise,” he repeated. “I will teach you how to use my materials.”

I grinned but made no reply, deciding to see if he followed through with that, and the rest of the walk back to Baker Street passed in silence.

The next day he had without a case, he pulled out his plethora of disguise materials and started teaching me how to use them, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I had always been interested in how he made his disguises, but I would let him find out for himself just how little talent I possessed at making a detailed disguise believable.


	30. Definitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #30  
> The One-Legged News-Seller and Other Spear-Carriers: Have today's offering from the POV of one of the background characters in any version of Sherlock Holmes, including characters who were never named. (Note: This does not include recurring principle characters like Mycroft or Hopkins.)
> 
> Indirect sequel to JWP #7: The Coming of Help

“Who is Mr. Holmes?”

Timothy tore his attention away from scanning the street to look at the small boy sitting next to him.

“What was that?”

“Who is Mr. Holmes?” he repeated. “All you big boys work for him to take care of us, but we don’t even know who he is.”

“Mr. Holmes calls himself a con-sul-ting detective,” he answered, carefully sounding out the big word. “He helps the police catch the bad guys that hurt people and used to target kids like us.”

The boy thought about that for a moment, and Timothy went back to watching the street. People wandered in and out of the pub across the intersection, and he listened to bits and pieces of conversation, searching for something that might interest Mr. Holmes. They had enough food for the day, but if he found something useful, Mr. Holmes would give him money he could use tomorrow.

“But who is he?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who _is_ he?” He frowned. “Why do you work for him? Why do you _like_ working for him? Why were you so panicked a few days ago when that bad guy broke into their house? You ran all the way to the Yard and back, and we _never_ go to that part of town.”

“Mr. Holmes is…unlike any other grown-up I’ve ever met,” Timothy replied slowly, thinking. “He can be rude. And demanding. He likes to play with a chemistry set he has in his sitting room, and he’ll scold anyone who touches it. He can go days without saying a word only to run out of his house and have a job for every one of us. But…that’s not all he is. He _cares_ about us, though he rarely shows it the way I was used to seeing, before I met him. He was the only person to ever even notice us, and if it weren’t for him and the doctor, many of us older ones wouldn’t be here.” He looked down at the boy next him, “and many others, including you, Johnny, would have died a long time ago. We wouldn’t have enough food without him, and you know he found the man that hurt your mother.”

Johnny nodded. “Found him and locked him up! But I still don’t understand why you were so scared the other day. Or why you like working for him. You don’t like searching the docks for food, but you do it anyway. You _like_ working for Mr. Holmes.”

Timothy hesitated for a moment. “I like working for him because I think it’s interesting. Most of what we do is watch people, and listen, because other grown-ups never look at a street kid. I like watching how different people act and listening to what they talk about.”

“You don’t need Mr. Holmes to watch people.”

“No, but Mr. Holmes pays us, and we use that money to buy food for everyone.” He hesitated again before continuing. “I would probably want to help Mr. Holmes even if he didn’t pay us,” he admitted.

“Why?”

“Because he’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had.”

Johnny’s eyes got wide. “A…father?” He frowned. “Most kids have those, don’t they?”

“Some do,” was the quiet answer. “The toffs, most of them have both father and mother. I’ve seen them. My mother died a few years ago, but I’ve never had a father.”

“Me neither. But what does that make the doctor? He’s no mother.”

Timothy laughed. “Of course, not! He’s…” He thought for a moment. “Several months ago, the doctor was telling me a story about one of their earliest cases, and he said that when a bad guy attacks them, they fight side to side and back to back, always. Have you ever heard that phrase before?”

Johnny shook his head.

“I have, once, a long time ago. Side to side and back to back is how brothers fight. If Mr. Holmes is like a father, then I guess that makes the doctor an uncle.”

Johnny thought about that. “I don’t like uncles.”

Timothy could have kicked himself. “Not every uncle is like your uncle, Johnny. And when you make someone you’re not already related to your uncle, they’re def’nitely not like that bad man. Just like how Mr. Holmes is _nothing_ like George’s father. He told you why he ran away, right?” Johnny nodded. “There’s…my mum used to tell me that there was family of blood, and family by heart. You get to choose who your family by heart is, and Mr. Holmes is family to almost all of us. So’s the doctor. That’s why I was so scared the other day. The bad guy broke in, and he hurt them both really bad. I thought they were gonna end up like my mum.”

“Is that why they haven’t been outside?”

Timothy nodded. “The doctor hasn’t left their house in nearly a week, he was hurt so badly, and Mr. Holmes is going to stay near him, because that’s what brothers do.”

Silence fell as Johnny processed that. “I’ve never had a brother,” he finally replied.

“I have.” Timothy’s voice was quiet, and he looked back towards the pub. “A long time ago. To have a brother is to have someone who will always stick with you. A brother is a partner in everything.”

There was another long pause. “Will you be my brother?”

Timothy looked back at the younger boy, surprised. “You—” He cut himself off and grinned, ruffling Johnny’s hair. “Of course, I’ll be your brother, Johnny. Do—” He broke off again, this time glancing around to pinpoint the voice that carried faintly over the breeze.

“What is it?” Johnny whispered.

Timothy held up a hand, asking for quiet, and he finally made out the faint voice.

“Carter is locked up like his brother. We’ll haf to move on wit’out them.”

“Tha’ won’t be ‘ard. They both went mad after their brother died, an’way. Now ‘member, the club has absolute silence. There’ll be no background noise to ‘ide our movements…” The men moved off into the crowd, and the voices faded from hearing.

“The Diogenes,” Timothy whispered, desperately trying to get a clear view of the speakers.

“Dio-who?”

“You’re gonna meet Mr. Holmes today,” Timothy replied, spotting the men and fixing their descriptions in his mind. “Those men are planning to attack the place Mr. Holmes’ other brother goes after work. Come on.”

Timothy took off jogging down the sidewalk, Johnny barely a step behind as they went to warn Mr. Holmes of what they had heard, but the smile on his face had nothing to do with the food they could buy with this information.

He had a brother again.


	31. Bullets and Frying Pans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes really should make sure his surveillance info is up-to-date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JWP #31  
> And To Think That It Happened On Montague Street: Whether it involves Holmes' old rooms or just the general location, include Montague Street somehow in today's work.
> 
> Indirect sequel to JWP #22: Lessons

“Whatever possessed you to go back to your old rooms?”

“I did not go _to_ them. Just _near_ them.”

Watson rolled his eyes. “Fine. What possessed you to go _near_ your old rooms? You had to have known you would not be welcome.”

Holmes scowled, still gently inspecting the swelling around his eye as they walked down the sidewalk. “It is less than half an hour after noon. She was supposed to be at her sewing circle, and I needed to remove a few things I had hidden around back.”

Watson glanced up with a smirk. “How many times have you lectured me about making sure surveillance information is current?”

The scowl deepened at his teasing. “It is current. On the third Tuesday of every month, my old landlady has a sewing circle she goes to at noon.”

Watson shook his head, deciding not to ask why his friend had been keeping such close tabs on a landlady he had hated—and that had hated him in return, as evidenced by Holmes’ coloring eye, courtesy of a frying pan. “Well, you probably should have removed whatever you hid before you moved. If she hates you enough to hit you with a frying pan so many years later, you know she will be watching for you to return. And no,” he answered the thoughtful look Holmes directed at him, “I am not going for you.”

Holmes harrumphed. “She would not recognize you, though.”

“Nor will she get a chance to. I am not going.”

“But I need those supplies!”

“No. You _want_ those supplies,” he replied, unlocking the front door to Holmes’ Baker Street rooms. Mary was visiting with Mrs. Hudson, and he would walk home with her after supper. “You will just have to replace whatever was there, because you are not sending an Irregular either. I may not live at Baker Street anymore, but I can still watch where those children go. You are not sending any of them to that part of town.”

“They live in the _East End_!”

“I don’t care. You are still not sending one of them to Montague Street, and you know I will be telling Wiggins to ignore any pleas from you to go down there. They hate that area. He would rather listen to me on this than to you, and you know it.”

The door closed behind them, and Watson covered a smirk as Holmes tried to think of a way to get around Watson’s declaration. There was no reason for Holmes to retrieve supplies that he had not needed for several years from a place where he could expect an attack. Whatever was there, he could simply replace.

An idea crossed Holmes’ face, and he opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he would have said was cut off as a gunshot echoed throughout the flat.

Horror replaced Watson’s amusement, and he never hesitated, pinpointing that the shot had come from Mrs. Hudson’s rooms and sprinting down the hall before the echo died completely. He pulled his revolver from his pocket, peripherally aware of Holmes running a couple of steps behind him as he slipped into battle-readiness. Gunshots could be expected upstairs when Holmes was bored, but _never_ from Mrs. Hudson rooms.

Another shot sounded as he threw open the door, and he bolted for Mrs. Hudson’s spare room—where the sound originated—looking frantically for the two women. Had someone broken in? Were they hurt? _Who_ was shooting?

The spare room’s door was closed, and he plowed into it, shoving it open as he barreled into the room, expecting to find an intruder. Expecting to find his wife and landlady under attack.

He found something very different. Mary looked up from where she reloaded a revolver, and Mrs. Hudson spun where she was standing near the opposite wall.

His gaze darted around the room, checking for a threat as Holmes skidded to a stop in the doorway behind him, but there was no one else in the room. He slowly lowered his revolver, turning to look at Mary as understanding lit her gaze.

“Sorry, dear,” she said quietly, setting the revolver down to walk towards him. “I did not hear the door.”

His frantically racing pulse finally started to slow, and he put the revolver back in his pocket and wrapped her in a hug. “I thought—”

“We are fine,” Mary assured them, leaning into him while glancing up to include Holmes in her words.

“You were practicing.” Holmes leaned against the door frame, studying them both intently.

Breaking the quick embrace, Watson glanced over in time to catch a flicker of a smile on Holmes’ face, and Mary nodded.

“She is teaching me how to shoot,” Mrs. Hudson answered, crossing the room with the target that had been propped on the opposite wall.

Watson raised an eyebrow as he saw the grouping on the target. “It seems you take to shooting as you took to knife fighting.”

She smirked. “Mary is an excellent teacher.”

A faint huff came from where his wife still stood next to him. “I could say the same about you, Martha.”

Mary moved away as he glanced between them. “What did—” He broke off, catching a glint of a pommel in Mary’s skirts, and chuckled. “Knife lessons for shooting lessons?” he asked.

“Of course. I wanted to know how to fight without running out of ammunition, she wanted to know how to shoot, and with the two of _you_ continually running off and getting yourselves into trouble, we decided to use the time to practice.”

Watson’s grin remained. “You want to participate in more of Holmes’ cases?”

“Maybe she should,” Mrs. Hudson answered, helping Mary disassemble their target and clean up. “It might prevent some of those crazier plans you have told me about, if you have a third person with you.”

“Most of those are Holmes’, and I take leave to doubt that even _Mary_ can get him to not run headfirst into danger. I have been trying for years, now.”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “I am not the only one. I did not run into a burning building last month.”

“Only because I got there first.”

Holmes huffed at him, but Mrs. Hudson cut in. “It doesn’t matter _who_ got there first, _neither_ of you should have been in it!”

Watson shrugged. “Someone was trapped in there, and it would have taken too long to wait for the fire brigade. Holmes waited outside so that if something went wrong, he could direct the fire brigade to me.”

“We will have to get a new piece of wood next time, Martha,” Mary said over Holmes’ muttered “more like go in after you,” barely glancing up from where she inspected their backstop. “This one is almost shot through.”

Holmes spoke before Mrs. Hudson could respond. “You realize that after this you cannot scold me for shooting inside, right?” he asked with a smirk.

“Keep your bullets out of my plaster, Mr. Holmes, and I might agree with you,” was the tart reply. “There will be another in the alley in a day or two, Mary. The neighbors always throw out large blocks of wood.”

“You mean the neighbors that complain the most provide your backstop?” Mary asked, and Mrs. Hudson nodded, her grin widening.

Watson chuckled. “How many times have the neighbors complained?”

“Today or since we started?”

Watson’s chuckle turned into a laugh at Mary’s question. “How about today?”

Mary smirked. “Seven. Martha has sent them away every time.”

Holmes suddenly straightened. “You are telling them it is me! I was not even here!”

Both ladies laughed. “I told them I had no idea what they were hearing,” Mrs. Hudson answered, adding primly, “You were not home, and _I_ would certainly never shoot inside.”

Watson shook his head as he grinned. “Where did you get the revolver?”

“It’s mine,” Mary answered. “I’ve had it for years.”

“Is it the one you have mentioned before?”

She nodded. “My father gave it to me when I turned thirteen, after I asked him how I could keep up the skills he had taught me in India when I was stuck in a boarding school in England.”

“I imagine the matrons did not know you had it,” Watson answered, his grin widening.

“Goodness, no!” Mary waved off the comment with a large smirk as she cleaned the spent brass from the table they had been using. “Those stuffy old seabirds would have taken it away. ‘Young ladies do not use weapons, Ms. Morstan,’” she primly imitated. “They never liked it when I told them my ayah had called me a young terror instead of a young lady.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “One day, you will have to tell me more of your time in India,” she said, glancing at the clock. “Dear me, I lost all track of time. I intended to have supper cooking by now.”

“It is alright, Martha.” Setting the brass aside, Mary continued with a smirk, “I am sure Mr. Holmes would _love_ to tell us about his black eye while we cook.”

Holmes scowled as Watson laughed. “Yes,” Watson replied. “Tell them where you went today, Holmes, and who took exception to it.”

“Montague Street,” Mary announced. “Didn’t you say you used to live down there?”

“How did you—?”

Mary laughed at the surprise on the detective’s face. “You were bemoaning the fact that you left something on Montague Street as you left earlier, Mr. Holmes, and you mentioned your old landlady in that story you told me at the concert last month. It is not much of a leap that you left something at your old rooms and tried to get it back. I am guessing your old landlady chased you away?”

Holmes made no immediate answer, and Watson laughed at the speechless consulting detective. “I guess your deductive skills are not as unique as you thought, Holmes,” he said with a large grin.

Holmes’ surprise changed to a scowl at the pawky remark, but he nodded at Mary. “You are correct. She did not appreciate finding me in the alley behind her building.”

“The frying pan she brought with her suggests it was a bit more than a lack of appreciation, Holmes,” Watson said dryly. “Maybe she did not want to risk bullet holes in her plaster.”

He ducked Holmes’ halfhearted swat as Mary and Mrs. Hudson laughed, and Holmes’ answer prevented any chance of further discussion. Watson just made himself comfortable. Mrs. Hudson and Mary would have plenty of entertainment while they cooked, if the bickering that filled the room was as entertaining for them to watch as it was for Watson to instigate.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always enjoyed :)


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